


Don't Forget The B-Side

by compo67



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Music Store, British Character, British English, Exes, Explicit Sexual Content, First Dates, Fluff and Angst, Frustration, Getting to Know Each Other, Hipsters, Inspired by Music, Jensen Ackles Plays Guitar, M/M, New Relationship, Past Relationship(s), Personal Growth, Portland Oregon, Slow Dancing, Switch Jared Padalecki, Switch Jensen Ackles, Switching, Tattooed Jared, electrician jared, hipster jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-01-05 21:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 50,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18374375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: Jensen moved from Dallas to Portland in an effort to escape his helicopter parents. For the past four years, he's been living that Pacific Northwest Life. His boss, however, warns him about going "full Portland hipster."B-Side Records and Music opened up in the Pearl District on NW 12th and Northrup back in the nineties. Amos has been holding grudges against hipsters ever since. Sadly, even record stores need working lights. Cue Jared Padalecki, a tattooed, pierced, half-British, half-Texan master electrician.Incredible, right?But Jensen has Baggage and a few issues to work through. Can he move forward? Should he call Jared back?Featuring vinyl records, a Nat King Cole soundtrack, the use of text emojis, British and Texan accents, and numerous Portlandia references.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcdanno28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcdanno28/gifts).



 

B-Side Records and Music opened up in the Pearl District on NW 12th and Northrup back in the nineties.

It sits in between the Dublin Bay Knitting Company shop and Carlita’s Authentic Mexican Restaurant--two blocks away from The Fields Park.

Only the park existed when Amos Fox had the idea to provide Portland with the most extensive music selection available. However, once the CrossFit and the Brewpub opened up, Amos decided that Portland had changed for the worse.

Out of spite, he kept B-Side in operation; he thumbed his nose at the malignant hipster cloud that had settled over the city. If anyone denied being a hipster, Amos called them the fuck out.

Hipsters never admit to being hipsters. Denial is part of the disease.

Hipsters can shop at B-Side, but Amos asks them not to talk about their Pear Ginger Bellini drinks, their beard butter, or their kombucha shit. Six months ago, some unfortunate individual asked Amos if there was a kombucha dispenser for customers, available at two other record stores in the area.

Amos will accept money from hipsters, but he will not cater to them.

The only beverage available for free at B-Side is a pot of Folgers coffee at the register. And once that’s gone, it’s gone. B-Side does not carry any soy milk, almond milk, or organic cane sugar. Once a month, Ahmet, the assistant store manager, will buy non-dairy creamer and packets of generic sugar in bulk.

If people want fancy, hipster bean-water, Amos welcomes them to leave his store and go get it somewhere else. Like a freaking coffee shop. B-Side is a record store. It sells records.

Jensen first joined the curmudgeonly crew four years ago, when he was twenty, bright-eyed, and naive about the West Coast and the world in general. He escaped his family’s well-intentioned, yet smothering presence in Dallas by moving to somewhere they couldn’t possibly want to visit him every other week.

Portland is everything Dallas isn’t--rainy, gray, without ten gallon cowboy hats, and so liberal it frightens them.

They begged and pleaded with Jensen to move to Austin instead. That was the same thing, right?

The problem with Austin was that it was too much of the same. Plus, it’s only three hours from Dallas. Sensible parents might consider three hours each way a long journey to check in on their middle child every weekend, but not Alan and Donna. They were more than happy and willing to sing along to Neil Diamond albums while driving on 35 South.

It’s not that Jensen feels like his parents are clingy.

It’s that they are.

Some wise, psychic part of Jensen’s brain told him to go West, young man. He briefly thought about Los Angeles as an ideal destination, but the weather was a little too similar to Dallas and for someone with only an Associate’s Degree, there was no way he could afford rent on his own. Roommates were an option, however, he’d need at least two or three to cut down on that cost. Alan and Donna had always given Jensen his own room and bathroom, so sharing a tiny apartment with two or three other people made the glamor of LA fade fairly quickly.

Any city in California proved to have these issues.

Moving along the West Coast, Jensen thought of Seattle, but he couldn’t afford much there either.

He couldn’t exactly afford much in Portland, but a one bedroom apartment in Goose Hollow for eleven hundred a month was better than the studio apartment twenty miles out from Seattle.

His parents inevitably found excuses to visit him in Portland while he settled into his apartment and the city itself. They insisted on taking him to expensive restaurants, breweries, and the freaking opera so he could experience the culture of his new surroundings. When he told them about his sixteen dollar an hour wage at B-Side, instead of politely accepting his attempt to be a responsible and independent adult, they just bought him gift cards to all those places.

Jensen tries not to be ungrateful or unappreciative.

He’s had a good sense of his privilege since he was seven years old. Alan and Donna went to great lengths to provide for him and his siblings.

But since he turned thirteen, his parents also went to great lengths to shelter him.

After questioning, Amos recognized that Jensen wasn’t a pretentious hipster and took him under his wing. He made the effort to adequately train Jensen in the world of music, partially for the store, and also to ensure that Jensen would never fall victim to the influence of hipsters. There was no pedestal for Jensen to comfortably sit on while under Amos’ tutelage. If he made a mistake, it was his job to clean it up.

Still, when Jensen made mistakes, Amos would try his best to coach, explain, and maybe even take him out for a beer or two at the Hour Glass.

Four years later, and Jensen still enjoys frequenting The Hour Glass.

He enjoys his routine and goes there after every closing shift on Thursdays.

First, he’ll stop by Chicken Little next door before they close and finish a four piece chicken dinner all on his own. Then, he’ll head into the Hour Glass and knock back a beer or two, maybe play a game of darts, and catch up with the regulars. There are plenty of bars with the same or greater selection of beer and liquor throughout Portland. He’s even been to a few hipster bars, though he will never admit that to Amos or the rest of the crew at B-Side. A cold beer doesn’t taste the same at any other bar than at tThe Hour Glass.

In fact, even though today is Saturday and he opens the store, he might just make a trip back out to Montavilla just for fried chicken and a beer. Maybe Ahmet will go with. Even married people need to have fun, something Ahmet hasn’t had a chance to do since last year, when his boyfriend supposedly issued a get married or break up ultimatum.

Maybe tonight will be the night Ahmet can actually live as an individual human being.

As he mops the floors, Jensen formulates a plan on how to pitch this to Ahmet.

Maybe he’ll tell Ahmet he’s ready to start dating again and he sure could use a wingman. That’s a lie--on both accounts--but whatever works. Jensen doesn’t have to hit on anyone; he can walk up to some random person at the bar and ask them if they know where he can find a bathroom. Then he can return to the table and tell Ahmet that damn, he struck out again.

“Not this shit again,” Amos grumbles as he walks out from the back room. “How many times do I got to tell you this?”

Jensen doesn’t stop mopping. “It’s Green Day, Amos. This is legitimate punk music.”

“So? I don’t wanna listen to this first thing in the morning.”

“It’s almost ten.”

“Did I raise you to talk back?”

“You didn’t raise me at all.”

“I bought you your first boilermaker, that counts as raising you.”

Amos takes the needle off the Green Day record and swaps it out. His hands move as fast as he knocks back boilermakers. Jensen has always appreciated the swift elegance with which Amos can change a record. Amos’ running total for records swapped out must be in the millions.

“Not this again,” Jensen groans. “You played this record every morning this week.”

“Is your ass complaining?”

“No, my mouth is complaining.”

“Same difference,” Amos quips and slinks back to the office. “Did you start the coffee?”

Jensen sighs and dunks the mop back into its grimy bucket. “Yes, I started the sludge.”

For all its hipster defiance, B-Side is one of the cleanest and most organized record stores in Portland. Even the clearance bins are kept free of dust and debris. Some folks have the nerve to plunk down a few hundred dirty milk crates, stuff them with equally dirty and damaged records, and call that a store. On buy back days, Amos also doesn’t allow his staff to purchase any old record. No one will pay beans for a water damaged ABBA album dug out of a basement.

As he mops, Jensen finds himself whistling to the Nat King Cole record Amos insisted on playing.

Rain patters gently on the storefront windows. The LED candles Rashida bought for the storefront display give the rain and glass a delicate, orange tint. As Jensen mops, the cobalt floors start to shine.

He moves the mop from side to side.

And sings along.

“It’s you that I’m just mad about. I thought you ought to know.” He keeps his voice low, close to his chest. “It’s you that I can’t live without. I thought you ought to know. Skies seem to be bluer. Birds sing sweeter, too. But all this never happens except when I’m with you.”

The record player picks up every imperfection on the record, which only adds to the luxury of each word. Every sound melts the air around it with rich, mahogany warmth. Music isn’t just music at B-Side.

“Your eyes are like the stars above. Your smile a sweet caress. It’s you alone I’m dreaming of. I might as well confess. When you’re in my arms, I’m thrilled from head to toe. I thought you ought to know.” Jensen sways along with the mop. He pictures a sleek, sophisticated dance floor, dimmed lights, and the scent of fresh cut roses.

His eyes close.

He sings the last few lines facing the storefront window.

“When you’re in my arms, I’m thrilled from head to toe. I thought you ought to know.”

On the last few seconds of the song, Jensen locks eyes with the dude standing outside the storefront. Dude. Standing. Outside. The storefront.

“Jesus Christ,” Jensen shrieks and clings to the mop for protection.

Tall. Dude. Long hair. Smattering of a beard. Gray coveralls. Sleeves rolled up. Three buttons undone. White t-shirt underneath. Neck, collarbone, and forearm tattoos. Nervous awkward flickering smile.

Amos slaps Jensen on the back. “That’s the electrician I hired, not Jesus.”


	2. Chapter 2

Jared Padalecki from Light it Up Electricians works on the lights above the register first. 

This puts him in extremely close proximity to Jensen, who works on the register for the first three hours of the B-Side’s business day. Some music or sex god must have made this possible. 

Two B-Side regulars stroll in, in no hurry. They haven’t been in any hurry since 2010, when they retired from their jobs as chemical engineers. Bob and Rob both drive Harleys, own music equipment worthy of any audiophile magazine, and claim to be Oregon’s foremost experts on keeping it real. Basically, they’re rich white guys with plenty of time and money to kill. 

Which also means Amos can’t stand them. If there’s a group of people he hates more than hipsters, it’s Bob and Rob. Amos reminds them on a weekly basis that just because he hasn’t banned their asses from the store yet doesn’t mean he’s not fixing to soon.

“I’m telling you,” Bob loudly declares to Rob and anyone within a two mile radius, “Blonde on Blonde is the best record ever made.”

“And I’m telling  _ you _ ,” Rob just as loudly replies to Bob and anyone within a three mile radius, “Pet Sounds is the best record ever made.”

“Let’s ask Jensen.”

“Fine, ask the kid. He’ll tell you what’s real.”

Jensen doesn’t look up from the record he’s been trying to price for the past thirty minutes. “Why don’t you just set two slices of white bread side by side and ask me the same question,” Jensen murmurs. “I hate both Bob Dylan and the Beach Boys with equal passion.”

Bob and Rob go silent for a full ten seconds--the longest they’ve both been simultaneously speechless in twenty years. 

However, in complete and perfect harmony, they explode in an uproar. 

Unfortunately, they hone in on Jared and immediately ask for his credentials. 

“Who are you?”

“Are you licensed?” 

“Insured?” 

“You know what you’re doing or are you just going off of some boob on YouTube?”

“I knew an electrician once. Screwed me over on the bill. I could have done the same thing he did in half the time for ten bucks. Do you work for him?” 

Bob and Rob often speak so quickly, it’s unclear who speaks when. No that it matters. In the four years of Jensen’s time at the B-Side, they’ve never said anything helpful, hopeful, or humorous. There are plenty of other regulars, whose company Jensen actually enjoys. Bob and Rob just happen to be the wealthiest, and by no coincidence, the loudest. 

Jared looks down from his perch, amused, curious, and slightly confused at the existence of such a dynamic duo. He takes his time answering. “I’m pretty sure I don’t know shit,” he says, his tone calm and cool. He points to the mess of wires hanging from the open ceiling tile, then speaks with a familiar drawl, the kind Jensen hides so the people of Portland don’t write him off as a redneck. “Especially not about these here wires and bulbs.”

Before Bob and Rob can celebrate in their assumptions about electricians, Jared adds, “But I do know that neither Dylan nor the Beach Boys are worth shit.” 

With that, Jared goes back into the ceiling and continues working. Jensen fends off Bob and Rob by reminding them that Amos put out a few new releases on the main display. A few more regulars wander in, along with some new faces. Jensen keeps an eye on the floor for a few minutes, and pretends like he’s working hard instead of hardly working. 

His facade shatters when Jared asks him a question. 

“What?” Jensen blurts out. He didn’t hear what Jared said, but it very well could have been something like, “Run away with me,” or “We’ve only just met, but I’m madly in love with you.” 

Jared peeks out from the ceiling. “Can you hand me a pair of scissors?” 

Well, fuck.

Jensen hands over a pair and tries to put this entire nonexistent connection between them out of his head. The man’s only doing his job. And while he may be ridiculously tall, handsome, and breathtakingly charming, he’s still only here to fix the lights--not to hit on Jensen. 

“So,” Jared coughs. “...what’s the deal with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?” 

Jensen’s grandmother taught him to elegantly reply to questions with something like, “I beg your pardon,” or “Repeat that, please.” Unfortunately, Jensen’s mouth beats his brain to the punch. Like a thoughtless jerk, Jensen replies, “Huh?” 

“Wrong question,” Jared laughs. He hands Jensen back the pair of scissors and closes the ceiling tile he’d been working in. Then, without any hesitance or trouble, he descends from the ladder like a muscled, tattooed god. “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are…”

“Characters from Hamlet.” Jensen interrupts, in an effort to redeem himself. “I know.” 

Jared smiles, a set of magnificent dimples on full display. “Well, yeah.” Close quarters. Relatively quiet store. Jensen allows all of his senses to focus on the man directly in front of him. Jared smells like rosewood and strong coffee. “Bad question,” he continues, offering an even more attractive smile. “I guess I should just go out on a limb and ask.”

“Weird question,” Jensen counters. “What did you wanna know about them?” 

Hazel eyes warm up as Jared laughs. “No, uh, I don’t wanna know anything about them.”

Jensen bets Jared’s birthday is in the summertime. He has the personality for it, like someone meant to frolic in the sun. Whatever he’s doing here in Portland can’t possibly provide him with enough sunlight. Jensen, however, as a Pisces, thrives in dark, gloomy, rainy weather. He misses Texas from time to time, but that’s neither here nor there. There’s no time for nostalgia with the attention of a tall drink of water exclusively focused on him. 

Amos yells something at Bob. Ahmet walks in and curses the Uber driver that made him late. Outside, cars drive over puddles, creating large waves that splash on the sidewalks. The tires of bicycles that whip by create a sharp, slick sound as audible as the cars they compete against. 

The sound of a flute--crisp and dreamy--resonates from the record player and rises above every argument within the store. Eventually, the flute bows to a rich, incandescent voice and exquisite, careful enunciation. “There was a boy, a very strange, enchanted boy. They say he wandered very far, very far over land and sea. A little shy, and sad of eye, but very wise was he.” Anxieties and traumas melt away, sparkling LED lights take over, and each set of lyrics become pearls on a necklace. “Then one day, he passed my way, this he said to me…” 

Thunder in the distance adds hypnotic depth and works in harmony with the flute. 

“The greatest thing.” Jensen feels his body relax. “You’ll ever learn is just to love… and be loved in return.” 

That last note works in an impeccable, seductive, and sultry manner.

Jared leans in. Close enough for Jensen to see the delicate details of the sea tattooed on his neck. Seashells. Foam. The gentle, teal ripples of water.

At long last, Jared speaks. 

“Would you wanna hook up sometime?” 


	3. Chapter 3

Several hours later, The Hour Glass experiences the first of several screams.

Hiyami releases a scream of torture so loud, it could kill a man at twenty paces. She holds her hands up to the skies in frustration, then grabs onto Jensen’s shoulders to shake him--hard. 

“You said  _ no _ ?!” She manages two good shakes before she needs to readjust herself in her wheelchair. “How could you say no?! Do you know how often every pathetic soul in this dank pit wishes an attractive man with a job would ask them out?” 

Several pathetic souls in the dank pit look over and grumble. Hiyami sighs and brushes them off with a wave of her hand. 

“Oh, fuck off. Cry a river into your beer, Gordon.” Before Gordon--or anyone, even Jensen--has a chance to respond, Hiyami punches Jensen in the arm. “You just spent the last forty minutes of my life telling me about this dude’s hair, the way his hands move, his dimples, and the curve of his ass in his uniform. And what do you finish it off with?” 

Jensen gives her a big, cheesy smile. “I shot him the fuck down.”

After knocking back her beer, Hiyami shakes her head. “Eliminate three or four words out of that sentence and you’ll have what you should have done.” 

Gordon turns away from the bar and faces Jensen and Hiyami at their table to snarl, “Did you know that not everyone here wants to hear about your sex lives?” 

“Is hearing about it getting you hot and heavy, Gordo?” Jensen leans back in his chair and spreads his legs open, one hand on his belt buckle. “Does hearing how I turned some dude down remind you of how I shot you down? How many times was it?” 

“Six,” Hiyami chimes in. “You asked Jensen out six times before you decided to grab his ass.”

“Oh yeah,” Jensen sighs, happily. “That magical, mystical time that you grabbed my ass and then Hiyami beat yours.”

“That’s right,” she declares for all the newbies in the bar to hear. She proudly points at herself. “Woman in the wheelchair, right here.”

Tucker, bless his heart, uses the gift of booze to turn Gordon’s attention back to the bar. As soon as Michelle emerges from their fifteen minute break, Tucker takes a seat at their table. He brings with him another round of beer. “So?” 

“So what?” Hiyami repositions her chair at the table, then clinks beers with Jensen. 

“ _ I _ want to hear about your sex lives,” Tucker laughs. “Why’d you pass on the ass, Jen?” 

A crowd of people file in and empty seats fill up. Hiyami waves to a few folks and graciously accepts another beer from one of her many admirers. For a moment, Jensen wishes he had that kind of skill with people. Hiyami draws people in with her snark and charm. Jensen only has the snark part down. 

In the slivers of quieter moments, Jensen answers the question. 

“I don’t do hookups anymore.”

Tucker raises his eyebrows. “Really?” 

“Really really.”

“Is he pulling my dick?”

Hiyami snorts. “I wish! He was given a gift from the heavens and he just threw it back into the river.”

“You don’t make any sense,” Jensen snickers. “I’m not driving your sorry ass home again. Sober up.”

“But free beer!” Another one magically appears on the table. “See?! Free beer!” 

Tucker helps himself to the gift. “I’ll take that. So, no hookups? Like none cold turkey none or none like practically none?” 

“It wasn’t what I wanted to hear,” Jensen admits, carefully selecting his words. “I wanna be romanced. Wooed. Swept off my goddamn feet since I’m on them all fucking day. How many more years do I realistically have as a gorgeous twink with an ass to die for?” He points at Hiyami. “Don’t you dare answer that.” He looks back to Tucker. “It’s called self-control.” 

It was the wrong question. 

Wrong question at the wrong time. 

Maybe, if Jared had asked him a year ago, he’d have all too happily said yes and they would have humped like rabbits in the back of Jared’s work van. There would have been forty-five minutes to an hour's worth of fireworks and glory.

Scratching his chin, Tucker searches for his response. “Hmm. I think that’s… what’s the word? Respectable? No. Admirable? Nah. Oh, oh--bullshit. Straight up bullshit.” 

“Whatever,” Jensen scoffs. “Some of us have virtues.”

“I bet,” Tucker says with a kick to Jensen’s foot under the table, “you were drooling over this dude and undressing him with your eyes the entire time he was there.” 

That’s only partially true. Jensen dismisses it entirely and changes the subject. “Who wants to play Keno? Any takers?” He rubs his hands together. “This could be the night.”

Tucker offers up five bucks and Hiyami fishes out ten from her bra. Jensen pretends to kiss the ten before amassing their cash into a pile. He fills out the betting slips, taking suggestions and also taking sips of his beer. Numbers and probability conquer his brain for a short amount of time until retreating and giving way to thoughts of Jared. 

Is he becoming too much of a hopeless romantic? Or has old age made him jaded and bitter? Would he have the same attitude towards hookups now if he had stayed in Texas? Maybe what happened in Portland last year wouldn’t have happened in Dallas. Nothing good can come out of reminiscing on those details, so Jensen crams it all back into the far recesses of his mind so it can continue quietly festering. He came here to have fun, drink beer, and eat chicken--not to give his brain a deep, psychological bath. 

The label on his beer doesn’t put up a fight when he attempts to peel it off. Hiyami and Tucker argue over the millions the three of them will win playing Keno. Patrons of the Hour Glass place their orders at the bar with Michelle and Adam, play video slots, toss darts, or huddle together at tables in pursuit of the American Dream--eating fried food and imbibing alcoholic beverages.

For the remainder of the night, Jensen acts like any other Hour Glass regular. He acts like himself from last week and the week before and the week before that. Against all odds, they win forty bucks from Keno and give half to the tip jar at the bar. The rest, Hiyami and Tucker insist that Jensen keep. 

Midnight arrives and the amount of available seats and space significantly reduces. 

Jensen offers Hiyami a ride home. She says she’s going to ride to one of the dudes she’s been chatting with on and off at the bar. Tucker lives two blocks over and opts to walk. Another Saturday night comes to a close. Once again, Jensen leaves without company and without a hurry to get back to his apartment.

In his car, Jensen places his hands on the steering wheel before turning the engine over. 

He leans back in the seat, closes his eyes, and sings what he couldn’t say earlier tonight. His voice starts off small and quiet. 

“When I fall in love, it will be forever or I’ll never fall in love. In a restless world, like this is, love has ended before it's begun. And too many moonlight kisses seem to cool in the warmth of the sun.” 

The wisp of piano and violin keep him company in this imaginary place.

With another few deep breaths, his voice rises and fills up the car.

“When I give my heart, it will be completely or I’ll never give my heart. And the moment I can feel that you feel that way too, is when I fall in love with you.” 

A long string of people have asked Jensen to hook up before. For years, he enthusiastically took every opportunity. It was fun. He enjoyed experiencing different people. The world was his Brazilian steakhouse; he needed only to flip up the little red card for, “That’s Enough,” and rest for a while before flipping up the green card for, “Bring Me More.” 

Maybe it’s not the best to describe his sex life as being similar to a Brazilian steakhouse.

Jensen opens his eyes and lets out a long sigh. Turning Jared down for a hook up was one thing. Something in his chest hurt when Jared accepted the rejection and moved on. He didn’t even try asking Jensen out for dinner instead. 

People seem to see Jensen as a combination of body parts and features considered conventionally attractive and desirable. Which used to be fine. 

Until he got tired of people using him for sex.

This is just how things had to turn out. He can forget about hazel eyes, dimples, and tattoos. In time, it won’t be anything he would ever bother remembering.

Rain on the windshield reminds Jensen that he still needs to drive home.


	4. Chapter 4

There are three kinds of customers who sell things back to The B-side. 

The first and most desired kind are the folks who have done their research, know the realistic worth of their items, understand the concept of reselling, and graciously accept their offer. 

On top of all that, they tend to bring in items that are in excellent condition and in demand. Unfortunately, this is a rare breed of customer--highly sought after. Amos believes in investing in the unicorns of customers and encourages staff to build rapport with them, maybe even add a few more dollars on their offer to keep them happy and coming back. 

Second on the type of customer is the most common. 

They don’t really have a solid understanding of vinyl, music, or reselling and usually accept their offers with minimal issues. Of course, this also means that they don’t bring in the best merchandise in either content or quality. They’ll haul in vinyl stuffed into garbage bags, shoved into album covers without sleeves, or vinyl that has clearly been sitting in leaky basements or directly in the sun. 

Buys like these are typically handed to newbies at B-side, so they can get a feel for mediocre, mid-range merchandise. Most of the stuff that these customers bring had large runs and extensive pressings, which typically drives down demand. These customers try to pass off any Johnny Mathis or Neil Diamond records as pure gold. 

It is the staff’s job to very gently break it to them that Johnny Mathis or Neil Diamond are the John Grishams or James Pattersons of the music world. Of course, nine out of ten times, these customers are huge Grisham and Patterson fans. 

The third type of customer is the one every staff member dreads--people like Bob and Rob who declare themselves vinyl experts. They come in, cock of the walk, and insist that their copy of The Sound of Music soundtrack is worth at least forty dollars. 

If staff dares to disagree, they get loud and bossy, then start to issue demands or threats like, “Well, Emmet at this record store offered me fifty bucks for this record, guess I’ll take my business there.” 

Yes. God yes. Take your business there and never come back. Promise? Pinky swear it. Go fall in love with Emmet and may the two of you have a beautiful life together. Just never come back here. 

Jensen finishes up with a type three customer, struggling the entire time to keep from screaming or breaking the guy’s beat up copies of Styx and Meat Loaf. These bands aren’t bad, they’re not terrible, but they don’t bring in more than four bucks a piece and dude wanted at least ten bucks each. He even snatched a record from Jensen’s hands and shoved it in his face to show him the quality of the god damn record. 

“Not a scratch!” The customer screeched, almost frothing at the mouth. “And you’re only offering five dollars for the whole bin?! For all that?!” 

Staff at B-side have been considering getting tattoos of, “For all that.” 

Dude took his bin of high quality items back and presumably retreated to the safety of his cave in the wilderness where all he does is listen to Bat Out of Hell on repeat. 

“You’re lucky,” Mike grumbles, pricing a stack of records destined for clearance. “I got a pee buy earlier today.” 

“Hope you wore gloves,” Jensen sighs. He leans against the counter and contemplates what to do next. 

Ahmet’s at the register, Tiffany’s out on the floor running out new records and organizing bins, and Jensen and Mike hold down the buy counter. Mike started two weeks ago, and while he has a good handle of crap versus not-crap, he still can’t buy on his own. Jensen remembers that period of being babysat at the counter while learning the ropes. 

Mike stares at a copy of Reader’s Digest Classical Music Hits. “Have you listened to the stuff we put on clearance?” 

“You have to.” Jensen decides to start pricing records that will go to the actual bin. “It’s like, if you’re gonna hate on Twilight, you should at least read one of the books or watch one of the movies. You have to understand what you hate.” 

“I don’t hate Meat Loaf,” Mike says with a pout. “But if I had a dollar every time I saw a Meat Loaf record here or at a garage sale, I could hire Meat Loaf.” 

“In what capacity,” Jensen laughs. “Like, as your bodyguard? Personal confidant?” 

“I’d have him follow me around, playing ‘I’d Do Anything for Love.’” 

“That’ll get you dates.” 

Serious, Mike responds with, “Dude, wouldn’t it be awesome?”

Jensen disagrees, but he doesn’t want to come off as a complete snob to the new guy. “Sure. And when you’re in bed with your date, he could just keep playing, maybe switch to ‘Read ‘Em and Weep.’” 

Mike feels comfortable enough with Jensen to give him a playful push to the shoulder. This pleases Jensen. Amos trusts him to train the newbies because he’s so good with them. Joking around about Meat Loaf is a good sign. 

From the counter, Jensen spots two women hauling crates, walking from the street towards the store. Jensen walks over to Mike and begins quietly stating some pointers. “Crates at least means they know the right way to store vinyl. Could be a good sign. Unless what’s in the crates are…” 

“Water damaged,” Mike answers. 

“Yep. And if they are, there’s probably gonna be…”

“Mold.”

“Bingo.” Jensen steps forward, smiles, and checks the ladies in. He gives a quick glance to how much they’ve brought in--roughly a hundred records--and estimates a twenty minute wait. It might not take that long, but he’d like Mike to learn. Both ladies head over to the R&B section to browse; Jensen pulls on a pair of vinyl gloves. 

“What have you been listening to lately?” Mike asks, gloves on and already helping with preliminary sorting. 

Jensen tries to stay in the moment. These seem like type number two customers so far. The ladies were cool and didn’t argue when he explained the buying process. Their records don’t show any sign of water damage, mold, pee, or worse. And so far, all Jensen has found in the crates are records. More than once, he’s discovered knives, bongs, or chew toys. He’d hold up each of these findings like a fisherman would hold up their prize-winning catch of the day. 

Unfortunately, there’s nothing terribly exciting in the crates. 

Why would Jared ask to hook up? Why didn’t he lead with dinner or lunch or coffee or whatever else. Anything else would have been more acceptable. A date where they go underwater scuba diving? Great. 

And why won’t his mind quit looping back to Jared? It’s been three days. 

Yet here he is, holding a copy of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass’ “Whipped Cream,” thinking about Jared covered in whipped cream. 

“Hopefully not Herbie,” Mike teases and gives Jensen a nudge to the shoulder. “But I guess that’s not a dealbreaker.” 

A few more customers wander in, Ahmet greets them, and one makes a beeline to ask Tiffany about the newest Chainsmokers album. This is a good crowd for a Wednesday afternoon. Jensen should be laughing it up and changing out albums on the record player up front. He should be engaged with his work instead of functioning on autopilot. 

“What?” He sets down a record and looks at Mike, who is two inches shorter. “Sorry, I just…” 

How much can he divulge to the newbie? It seems like a staff no-no to say, “Ah, you know, pining over some guy I met briefly, talked to for maybe half an hour while I rang people up and he fixed some lights in the ceiling--but we had a connection, I swear! And then when he asked to hook up, I flat out said no for reasons that I am now questioning.” 

Instead of pouring out the actual contents of his brain, Jensen makes a motion with his hand to signal that his brain escaped and exploded.  

Thankfully, Mike nods in understanding. “For sure. It’s that kind of day.” 

It really isn’t. The sun is out. Before work, Jensen stopped for coffee and got a free upgrade to a large. Customers have not thrown too many tantrums. Someone brought in and sold a copy of “May Death Never Stop You,” which Jensen plans to purchase even though he’s heard it sounds terrible on vinyl. Hiyami texted him an hour ago demanding to hang out after work. He’s going to a friend’s wedding this weekend with her and they both left shopping to the last minute. Once they’ve finished with the unpleasantness of picking out formal clothes, they’ll head over to The Hour Glass and meet up with Tucker at the end of his shift. 

Others have asked Jensen for hookups. He was able to turn them down without afterwards obsessing over his decision. Maybe he’s felt a hint of regret in the past, thought later on that it might have been fun or at least interesting. 

This time, he’s second guessing himself harder than hipsters trying to decide between spending money on raw water or espresso shots served in syringes. 

Well, fuck. 

He’s being ridiculous. 

Jared likely hasn’t given their interaction a second thought, so why is he still giving a shit? 

“Dude,” Jensen quietly laughs and gives Mike a playful shove. “Did I just see you put a Yanni album in the good pile?” 

Mike picks up the offensive album and makes it talk to Jensen about the weather, the traffic report, and an impressive portion of the Gettysburg address. 

As punishment, after the two women accept the offer, Jensen subjects the entire store to an hour of Yanni. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i quite enjoy neil diamond and john grisham, but i can't say the same about james patterson. also, can you tell i used to work buying/selling used stuff?


	5. Chapter 5

Two minutes before Jensen’s shift ends, a customer sells back a Charley Crockett album.

As soon as Amos disappears into the office, Jensen and Ahmet arm wrestle for it at the buy back counter. Getting married has made him weak--Jensen beats him in record time. 

“I let you win,” Ahmet grumbles and rubs his arm. “Hurry up and pay for it before I demand a rematch.”

Jensen holds up the album like a boxer holding up a championship belt. He rushes to pay and bolts from the store before Ahmet demands a rematch that would only end up in someone breaking something. Faster than he avoids phone calls from his parents, Jensen drives to his apartment, adds Charley to his growing music library, freshens up, and heads back out. 

The Pearl District offers up art galleries, upscale businesses, and lots of other shit labeled as urban renewal. Many of the buildings in the Pearl used to be warehouses or railroad yards. Hipsters enjoy the “old school” vibe of the cobblestone streets as they teeter from one art gallery to another. Jensen poked into one of the galleries on 11th, but found it incredibly pretentious, not to mention way out of his financial scope. 

He can afford rent on his apartment, which is technically in the Pearl, but further north and closer to the 405; it sure as hell isn’t swanky like the places near Jamison Square. 

But can he buy a two thousand dollar painting of a rubber duck floating upon a sea of dollar bills? No, no, and no again. He doesn’t care how the gallery staff spin it as a comment on the money behind childhood, he makes sixteen bucks an hour and would prefer to keep living in an apartment and eating food.

Similar feelings rise to the surface when he parks outside of Marios on Broadway. 

He knew he should have trusted that sense of dread when Hiyami texted him a downtown address. Getting lucky enough to find a parking spot right in front of the store only adds to the feeling of imminent doom. 

Clearly, the devil must have something in the works for him. Or against him. 

The storefront alone is worth more than Jensen’s entire vinyl collection. 

Expensive mannequins wear expensive clothes. Jensen stands in front of the main display windows, bathed in its orange marmalade glow. He tries to picture himself in one of the suits, tries to apply his face over the faceless mannequins, and nothing happens. Not a single feature of his morphs onto its vague features. People walk around and past Jensen. He wonders if any of them have ever tried to see themselves this way. 

Probably not. They don’t have to. They can probably go into Marios and buy the suit, put it on, and see themselves in a mirror instead of a storefront window. 

He’s right across from a Nordstrom and a Hilton, with Collier three blocks up.  Of course, there’s also a Goodwill three blocks west, so there’s still hope for downtown Portland.

Jensen steps into Marios. Within seconds, he identifies the music playing on the overhead speakers: “The Theme” by Miles Davis and John Coltrane. This is the live version from Olympia Theatre in Paris, part of the final tour in 1960. The Bootleg Series is so new, no one has sold it back at B-side yet and Jensen wouldn’t expect it. It’s an incredible series focused on the very last live performances between them. 

But like, what the fuck?

What the fuck is it doing playing  _ here _ ? 

“Don’t freak out,” Hiyami says, rolling up to Jensen in her scooter. “You look like you’re freaking out.”

“Volcanoes of notes,” Jensen blurts out. “Sheets of sound--how dare they play Coltrane.”

Hiyami sighs and holds her arms open for a hug. “Quit freaking out over the music and c’mere. Now. I have to show you this dress.” 

Jensen follows. Contempt rises in his throat as he observes customers shopping. Don’t they know that this is more than just… music to shop to? That every time Coltrane plays on this record, it’s an experiment in multiphonics? He plays so fast, yet so brilliantly, that every rush of notes sets off implosions of pure, white hot energy. 

“Is anyone listening to this?” Jensen mutters, following Hiyami through the store. “Appreciating it? Uh, no. What next? Are they gonna play ‘A Love Supreme’ and announce a sale on cummerbunds?”

“Dude, quit being such a snob.”

“I’m not a snob.”

“What year was ‘A Love Supreme’ recorded?”

“1961.”

“See? Snob.” Before Jensen can counter, Hiyami stops in front of a dressing room. A dress hangs on the door, ready for her to take it in and try it on. “This--this is my own snob monster coming out buck ass naked. Look at this.” Her voice takes on a dreamy quality. “It’s a Valentino.”

Jensen admits that the dress looks incredible, down to the smallest detail. Every inch of lilac lace screams class and elegance. The two thousand dollar price tag screams something in a language with a lot more swears and vulgarities. 

“Off-the-shoulder dresses are my favorites,” Hiyami sighs. “Wanna help zip me up?” 

A sales lady approaches, her hands clasped in front of her as if she means to start praying at any second. “Oh, hello there, I’m Gladys. I was helping out your friend. Our fitting rooms are single gender. If there’s something you’d like to try on, our men’s fitting rooms are on the opposite side of the store.”

Hands on his hips, Jensen answers. “Well, Gladys, I’m not really a size six, but if you insist, we can definitely go over to the men’s fitting rooms and try to get me in this.” 

Gladys’ face drops as fast as Coltrane changes notes. Jensen doesn’t let her squirm for too long. “Look, I’m glad you were helping, but I can take it from here.”

“Well… I… I’d be happy to help Miss try this garment on…” 

Not going to give up? Jensen shrugs and looks to Hiyami, who picks up the task of schooling Gladys. He tried. “Miss appreciates the offer,” Hiyami says, sounding bored and irritated all at once, “but I prefer my friend to help maneuver me into this dress. I don’t know you, I don’t know if you’ve been trained how to lift bodies like mine, so for the next fifteen minutes, we’ll use whichever fitting room you like as long as I get to choose the kind of help I need.”

“Unless,” Jensen adds, “you have a gender neutral fitting room?” 

“Or,” Hiyami continues, “the number for your district manager?”

After that, Gladys becomes their best friend. She brings them bottles of Evian and leaves them alone to their own devices. 

“I hope you showered today,” Jensen mumbles, lifting Hiyami up and out of her scooter. 

“I bathed in the blood of virgins, does that count? Hey, you make this look easy.”

“Well, I can lift the weight of two pale ales in each hand.” With care, he sets her down on the available sofa. “Did you see the price tag on this thing? Did your Auntie die and leave you everything?”

Smiling, Hiyami quips, “When you get a degree in biomedical engineering, you can also blow a shit ton of money on a Valentino.”

“Ouch. That hurts,” Jensen mumbles, pointing to his heart, “right here.” 

“Well, quit hurting and take off my clothes, commoner!” 

“I’m sorry, did I just hear, ‘Jensen, I’m going to buy you a god damn expensive dinner after making you suffer through this bullshit?’” 

“I was gonna buy you a suit, but okay, sure.”

For the next twenty minutes, they argue about the possibility of purchasing the Valentino dress and some kind of suit called a Brioni. Jensen convinces her to buy the damn dress, because in all honesty, it looks fucking amazing on her. He ardently declines the suit. It’s a wedding, not a meeting with ambassadors from foreign nations. 

“I’m using my scooter today because I didn’t feel up to wheeling myself around, but I can still beat the shit out of you,” Hiyami warns. “Or at least run you over. Let me buy you the suit.”

“Seriously, could you just give me a thousand dollars instead? I’ll take that.” 

“I have offered!”

“I’m not serious!”

“You said seriously!”

“It’s just… an expression!” 

“I swear to the gods of Valentino, if you show up at Amalia’s wedding looking like a slob, I will never speak to you ever again. Ever.”

Finished with purchasing the Valentino, Jensen holds the door to the street open for Hiyami. “There go my plans of showing up in a garbage bag and a pair of flip flops. Rats.” 

“Fuck you, Jensen. Except not, because you apparently feel the need to turn down perfectly suitable dick.” Hiyami leads the way to Southpark Seafood, their agreed upon place to stuff their faces. “I bet you’ve been thinking about electrician guy since you shot him down.”

For the past seven hours, rain hasn’t descended upon Portland. The sidewalks do not present a treacherous, slippery hazard to them as they glide down Taylor Street, with the park on one side of the street and a moonshine and whisky bar on the other. That’s pretty much Portland in a nutshell--full of parks and places for booze. 

“Uh, no,” Jensen mutters, unable to come up with anything more clever because she’s three hundred percent right. Hazel eyes and dimples and broad, broad shoulders don’t come along that often at B-side. Or at least, they don’t in the form of sunshine and happiness, complete with a great ass. 

As Hiyami and Jensen  turn onto Ninth Street, rain emerges in slow, sporadic drops. 

“Why didn’t you tell him you didn’t want to hook up? And like, maybe just asked him out for dinner?”

“Ninety nine percent of the time, guys who lead with hooking up aren’t interested in going to dinner-- _ only _ dinner.” 

“What if this dude is the one percent?”

“What’s it matter now,” Jensen whines. “I struck out.”

“You call him.” Hiyami and Jensen check in with the hostess, who hands them a pager. “You call him and tell him that hey, instead of bumping uglies, why don’t we drink legal addictive stimulants and I can talk to you about how much of a music snob I am. Something like that.”

Jensen shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to do that. I wanna be the one called and the one asked out and the one who gets spoiled for a chance. I meant what I said. I wanna be wooed.”

“And what’s that look like to you? If I wanted to give a presentation about How to Woo Jensen Ackles, what should I include on my boss ass PowerPoint?” 

“I won’t date anyone who doesn’t know the genius of our lord and savior John Coltrane…”

“Oh my god. Stop.”

“Hey, I didn’t say obscure stuff like Buddy Bolden or Joe Venuti. Everyone knows Coltrane. And Nat King Cole. And Duke Ellington. And Louis Armstrong.” 

Their pager goes off. 

Hiyami hands the pager to the hostess. Once settled at their table, she leans over towards Jensen, so she can be heard above the clamour of the restaurant. “Look, all you have to do is call him up at wherever he works and ask about dinner instead of nookie.” 

“That’s another one,” Jensen quips. “I would never date anyone who doesn’t listen to Green Day, especially ‘Dookie.’ Why are you so hell bent on this?”

“Because.” She orders a tequila sunrise for herself. “You won’t know if he listens to Green Day if you don’t have dinner with him to find out. You haven’t talked about anyone the way you’ve talked about electrician guy in a long, long, long ass time. And don’t you fucking dare say otherwise.”

Jensen orders an old fashioned. 

He pretends to stare at the menu. Nothing has ever been more interesting to him as the description for smoked oyster toast. 

In a softer voice, Hiyami adds to her pro-electrician platform. 

“If you don’t call him, you might never see him again. You’ll always wonder.”

Despite his feelings towards ordering a twenty dollar burger, Jensen does so. He might smell like a hipster tomorrow, but for the time being, he’ll eat and drink his way towards silencing the voice in his head that agrees with Hiyami. 


	6. Chapter 6

This is okay.

Jensen wakes up, sprawled across his bed in manner more closely resembling performance art instead of a restful night’s sleep. He rolls over onto his back and covers his face with both his hands. He isn’t hungover, not entirely. But maybe it hadn’t been such a great idea to go out with Ahmet last night. Or the night before that. 

Ahmet was hellbent on playing a golden fiddle to beat the devil at his game. And by playing a golden fiddle, what he really meant was he was hellbent on getting smashed. 

The devil probably had something to do with the stale, acidic taste in Jensen’s mouth right now. 

This is okay.

Why does he keep thinking that? What’s okay? Nothing’s okay. Natural light from some terrible thing called the sun shines in, uninvited, through the traitorous slits in Jensen’s blinds. Holy fuck. Has the sun always been this bright at eight in the morning? 

Is it eight? It feels like it is. 

Crawling over to his nightstand, Jensen reaches out for his phone. He groans in anger and confusion when the light from it shines directly into his eyes. God dammit. What did Ahmet order for their table last night? Gasoline? Mixed with cigarette butts? Why did Jensen allow Ahmet to set the pace and choose the liquor? Fuck. It better not be past eight. What does his phone say? Is that a one or a seven? 

“Noon?” Jensen croaks and flops onto his back again. “Noon,” he echoes, the word thick in his mouth.

He had another Dallas dream, which means his parents will call soon. They’ll ask about the weather, work, his health, when is he ready to come back home, has he eaten enough, and when can they book a flight from PDX to DFW? 

Noon. 

For some reason, that doesn’t seem right.

Oh. 

Oh, shit.

Right on time, his phone rings and he somehow manages to pick it up.

“Yo, you ready?” Hiyami sighs happily. “It’s a fine day to get hitched, I’ll give them that. I’m like, three minutes away.” 

Oh. Shit.

Naked, Jensen stumbles all the way from his bed to the door frame, where he then switches to staggering down the hall, and finally tumbling into the bathroom. One look at himself in the mirror verifies the nagging, churning feeling in his stomach. That feeling might as well throw a rave and move in. He has exactly three minutes to transform from hungover wreck to hungover wreck in a suit.

Decided on a plan to make a shower happen, Jensen lurches towards the shower. He pulls back the curtain and yanks on the shower faucet. Water! Water is good! It’s one step closer to… 

“What the fuck?!” Ahmet screams and flails in the tub, overwhelmed by the sudden spray of water. “Stop! Turn it… off!” 

“The fuck are you doing here?!” Jensen screams back. His head pounds, blood throbs at the base of his skull. His assistant manager is in his bathtub. He himself is buck ass naked. By sheer miracle, in between all the screaming and flailing, Jensen shuts off the faucet and wraps a towel around his waist. 

Ahmet struggles to get up. Water gets everywhere, though it doesn’t have far to go considering the size of the bathroom. They twist, turn, and trade places so that Ahmet stands at the sink and Jensen precariously climbs into the shower. This is not at all how he imagined getting ready for Amalia’s wedding. 

“What the fuck did we drink last night?” Ahmet groans and sputters. 

Words form in Jensen’s head, but they don’t find their way out in a cohesive sentence. He knows that they didn’t go to the Hour Glass. Warm, then cold, water helps. Ahmet sticks his hand into the shower, holding the bottle of mouthwash Jensen keeps on the bathroom sink. Jensen gratefully accepts the bottle and attempts to rid his mouth of the mistakes from last night. 

Meanwhile, Ahmet peels off his soaked clothes and announces, “I might puke.”

“Don’t,” Jensen whines. “Wait until I leave.”

“Hiyami’s here.”

“Text. Late. Going.” 

“Do you have a plus one?”

“Herrrrrr,” Jensen grumbles as he shuts off the water. The two seconds he spends with a towel on his head--blocking any and all light--makes the shower worth it. 

“Where’s your suit? I can help you get dressed. Wait. Fuck that. Tylenol first.” Despite the threat of puking, Ahmet springs into action. He moves through Jensen’s apartment and comes back to the bathroom with a glass of orange juice and two Tylenol. 

Jensen has managed to put on a pair of black boxer briefs but nothing else. He leans against the door frame and sighs in relief at the swig of cold juice and the knowledge that soon enough, the Tylenol will kick in. He ambles after Ahmet, also only wearing boxer briefs, and they both try to figure out how to get Jensen more alive and less dead on his feet. 

“I feel like frat boys,” Jensen mutters and steps into his navy dress pants. 

“We drank like frat boys. Can I borrow some clothes?”

“Take what you want.”

“Except your Nirvana shirt.”

“Except my Nirvana shirt. How’s Hiyami not dead?”

“She left halfway through, I think.” 

“Are my pants on backwards?”

“Nah.”

“You text Austin yet?” How do socks work? Jensen’s phone keeps lighting up with texts from Hiyami. He is one hundred and ten percent certain she’s doling out threats to his well-being in this life and the next if he doesn’t hurry the fuck up. 

Thankfully, Ahmet picks up on Jensen’s struggle with socks and hands Jensen an undershirt, then helps button up his shirt. 

“Not yet,” Ahmet murmurs, his fingers surprisingly capable despite the hangover. “Let’s not talk about Austin.” 

Function returns to Jensen’s brain at a snail’s pace. He leans into Ahmet, resting his head on his shoulder. “How’d you fall asleep in the tub? I have a couch.” 

Or a bed. But even Jensen’s brain understands not to mention that. 

Sunlight barges its way into the room. Ahmet rubs circles into Jensen’s back. “Dude, I have no idea. My mother’s Turkish and my father’s Nigerian.”

Jensen laughs into Ahmet’s bare shoulder. “So?” 

With a shrug, Ahmet smiles. “That means: I have no idea. Did you buy a new suit or have I just not seen this one before?” He gently pries Jensen off of him so that they stand independently of each other, though he keeps his hands on Jensen’s shoulders. “Dark blue looks good on you.”

“Most people say green because it brings out my eyes,” Jensen quips. His remark leads Ahmet to playfully shove him towards the hallway. In a series of motions that feel more like an out of body experience, Jensen collects pieces of his life and identity on the way to the front door. He passes his record player, his three record storage crates, and his Gibson. None of these things will he need at the wedding, but it’s comforting to tell himself that they will be here when he comes back.

This is okay. 

Wallet. Keys. Envelope stuffed with a card and cash he miraculously had enough sense to prepare before last night’s epic booze fest. Sunglasses for both style and as a way to shield his eyes from the horrors of natural light. Mints. And… 

He stops at the door, Ahmet just behind him, who was simultaneously getting dressed and walking. 

Ahmet pulls on Jensen’s gray Cowboys shirt. He fills it out better in the arms than Jensen does. 

There’s something they used to do at this moment. Right after Ahmet finished tying back his dreads into a ponytail. Something that involved more than sharing clothes and grumbling about hangovers.

Jensen pastes on a smile and hopes it reaches his eyes. “Lock up before you go. Don’t fall asleep in my bathtub again.” 

“I won’t,” Ahmet replies and holds his right hand up in a vow. “I promise.” 

Ahmet the assistant manager. Ahmet the coworker. Ahmet the guy in the background, previously the foreground. Ahmet the missing piece at the Hour Glass. Ahmet the man who can beautifully tie a tie two seconds before Jensen has to leave and thumps his chest when it’s done. 

Ahmet the friend.

“Have fun, don’t drink too much, and please,” Ahmet squeezes Jensen’s shoulders in emphasis, “don’t do the chicken dance.” 

This is okay. 


	7. Chapter 7

Amalia and Evan decided to get married in the Great Hall at the Sunriver Resort.

It offers pristine views of Oregon to all of Evan’s family and friends from Boston. Groups of folks tour the grounds, basking in the late-May afternoon sun before the wedding. With a property large enough to contain sixty-three golf holes and cabins for overnight guests, there’s plenty to see. White, silver, and lilac decorations and details guide guests from one spot on the extensive grounds to another. 

Idyllic mountain views. Fresh cut grass. Little Sun River. 

Jensen follows Hiyami up the stone path to the dramatic pine lodge entrance. He tries not to  _ trudge _ , but he can’t help it. He only knows Hiyami and the bride--two people out of a staggering three hundred. Sure, Amalia is one of nine siblings, but three hundred wedding guests? 

Even after arriving half an hour late, they still have another half an hour until the ceremony starts. 

“Fill up on pigs in a blanket,” Hiyami suggests, changing the speed of her scooter from rabbit to turtle. “That’s what I plan on doing. And maybe scoring with one of the groomsmen. Maybe both. Maybe both at the same time.” 

“This is a classy place,” Jensen grumbles. “They’re not serving pigs in a blanket.”

Hiyami shoots him a look. Her silver eyeshadow shimmers. “Are you gonna be in this mood all day?”

Trying not to pout, Jensen grabs a cheese tart from a nearby silver tray. “I’m not in any mood.” He pops it into his mouth. “Not at all.”

“You just said this is a classy place and you’re spewing food everywhere, hypocrite!”

“These are really good. You want one?” 

“No!” Hiyami laughs and fails at getting away. “Stop talking with food in your mouth!”

“But I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts…” 

“Ahem.” An incredibly somber and serious older gentleman makes his disapproval known while also taking a cheese tart. Jensen hopes they don’t sit near him during dinner. Otherwise this is going to be a long, long wedding. 

It is, however, a beautiful venue. 

High beams and natural cut logs create a warm and regal space. Even filled with the tables necessary to seat three hundred people, the Great Hall feels open and airy. Jensen imagines the way the candlelight will shine against all the wood. Not a single flower, napkin, or place setting seems out of place. He spends more time marveling at details while Hiyami strikes up a conversation with a handful of other guests. 

The entire Hall buzzes with the sound of conversation. Friends catch up with each other, family members exchange trip times and gossip, and staff offer descriptions of each available hors d’oeuvres. 

Jensen stays close to the hors d’oeuvres tables. Eating provides a welcome distraction and necessary sustenance since he didn’t have time for breakfast or lunch. Hopefully Ahmet helped himself to something before he left. Not that Jensen cares. Okay. He does care because they’re still friends. And maybe whatever Jensen has in his fridge is not as good as the smoked salmon with dill cream cheese and fried capers on a rye toast point--the staff member doesn’t pause for breath in that whole description, impressive--but it’s something. 

Look, Jensen tells himself as he accepts an offered bacon wrapped scallop, quit thinking about Ahmet.

Make room in your life for others. Or other things. When was the last time he picked up his guitar and actually played? And maybe it wouldn’t be so horrible to call his parents instead of having them call him. Until they start their pleas for him to come back to Texas. Like that one song by that one band. What were they called? Bowling for… for something. Damn. Now it’s going to haunt him forever. 

An English accent breaks Jensen from his arduous memory jog. “I’ve never seen someone look so serious whilst eating bacon.” The accent comes from a rather tall man in his mid-fifties, his hair an unruly shock of silver and black. “Are you quite alright there, young man?” 

Jensen coughs in an effort to stop from choking. “Yeah,” he blurts out. “I mean, yes. Yes, I am quite alright here… sir.” Texan manners toss out the “sir,” and it’s too late to take it back. God damn. 

Amused, the gentleman nods and chuckles. “Pish posh, don’t bother with that sir nonsense.” 

He stands at Jensen’s height, maybe an inch taller. His moustache and beard are solid black and Jensen wonders if he dyes them. If he does, why not dye his hair? Though he does keep his facial hair impeccably trimmed. 

Okay, that’s too much. More eating, less observing details about a random guest. 

“Reginald Shaw,” English dude says and extends his hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Bride or groom?”

“Uh, neither.” Jensen shakes his hand and realizes how he answered. “Oh shit, sorry--bride. Bride. I’m on the bride’s side. Amalia’s a former coworker.” 

Reginald laughs heartily and pats Jensen’s shoulder. “Quite alright. Personally, I’d rather be the bride. But then again, I do love being the center of attention. The day’s all about her and rightfully so. She looks smashing. Interest you in a drink?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Jensen replies with a shaky laugh. He follows Reginald to one of the many bars available, all of which have been decked out in sparkling crystals and white silk. 

It’s unwise to start drinking this early, especially since last night’s mistakes weigh heavy on him still. But that’s what being young is for--making stupid decisions. Throwing caution to the wind. Engaging in reckless behavior despite certain consequences. Allowing Reginald to order his drink for him.

“This is pure gasoline,” Jensen croaks after the first sip. 

“Austrian rum,” Reginald says and knocks back half his glass. “And a Coke chaser. It’s not  _ that _ late yet.”

“It’s strong as shit. Holy fuck.” 

“Trust me, it’s far better than any other rum. From now on, you’re a Stroh man…” 

“Jensen. Jensen Ackles.” 

“Well, Jensen, don’t worry. You won’t go blind from one of these.” He finishes his drink, leaving only the ice to clink in his glass. “It’s distilled from fermented molasses. Gives it that special kick you just don’t find in any of the others. Good of them to stock it. Join me in another?”

Jensen can’t help but laugh. He shakes his head and holds his hand up. “No, no, I’d like to actually see the wedding, not black out before it. Thanks though.” 

“Ah, well, I applaud your responsibility. Actually, I’ll drink to that.” He leaves for the bar once more and comes back with two glasses of water. “I decided to take your side of things. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time to sample the bar soon enough.”

Guests begin to walk outside for the ceremony. Hiyami doesn’t move from her spot across the room, talking to someone who can be summed up as a tall drink of water. 

“Good decision,” Jensen says and smiles over his glass. “Are you related to Evan?” 

Reginald nods. He takes his time drinking the water, as if somehow foreign to him. “Godfather and all that,” he replies with a wave of his hand. “Damned proud of him. But you didn’t hear that from me.” His bright blue eyes scan the room. “Of course, I don’t know ninety-five percent of the people here. Tell me, are you a local? Or in for the wedding?”

Thankful that he’s not the only one lost in a sea of strangers, Jensen relaxes. “I’m local. I work at a music store in the Pearl District.”

“Music, eh?” Reginald taps his chin. “I suppose, being a proper British citizen, I should ask if you carry anything by The Beatles.” 

“Yeah,” Jensen laughs. “You know, I’ve heard of them.” 

“Excellent, excellent. Do you enjoy music or is it what pays the bills?” 

Memories of playing his guitar in the either the early hours of morning or the last few minutes before midnight practically cause his hands to ache. He’s neglected playing or even listening to music in his apartment for the past three months. 

Before he loses himself in thought yet again, Jensen answers. “Both, fortunately. I moved here from Texas about four years ago and was lucky enough to find work that doesn’t always feel like work.” 

“That’s the dream. I fancied myself a rock star back in university. Of course, that was ages ago. Do you play any instruments?” 

“Guitar, mostly. I can play piano and keyboards okay. My mother taught piano lessons so I was the guinea pig.” Hiyami waves Jensen over and points to the French doors leading outside. “Looks like we should grab our seats. Are you sitting up front then?”

Reginald pulls a money clip from his breast pocket and leaves a tip for the bartenders. “Indeed I am. My son is one of the groomsmen. You know, he is rakishly handsome and available. You might not date men, but I feel obliged to tell every polite young person I meet those facts just in case.”

Jensen places two dollars into the discreet tip jar on the counter and walks with Reginald towards the French doors. “Trying to set your son up at a wedding, huh? Does that ever turn out well?”

“Not yet.” Reginald laughs and shakes his head. “But there’s always the hope. Come, I’ll introduce you two quickly before we take our seats. You don’t even have to date him.” He scans the room. “Where in the hell is he? I saw him just a minute ago. You can’t miss him. He’s been the tallest person in a room since he was in uni. I suppose this gives you time to let me down gently about meeting my son.”

With a shrug, Jensen smiles, then holds his arms out. “I’m not going anywhere just yet.” 

He expects the usual to occur--well-meaning older person thrusts their offspring in Jensen’s path and eagerly awaits wedding invitations to be sent out. His parents do this all the time, even while a thousand miles away; he is their unmarried son, it’s what they do. He expects to greet Reginald’s son, shake hands, figure out within seconds that they have nothing in common, and go on their merry way. 

“There he is,” Reginald huffs. “Jared! Give us a second this way before you go off to join the rest.”

Jared?

“My son’s an electrician. He’s a good egg, though I am biased.”

Jared Padalecki from Light it Up Electricians walks over and tells his father to stop shouting across the Great Hall, he can hear him just fine. He turns to Jensen and freezes mid-sentence. 

_ This _ , Jensen didn’t expect.


	8. Chapter 8

Jensen’s hangover returns with a vengeance. 

Tall. Dude. Long hair. Smattering of a beard. 

However.

Instead of gray coveralls, sleeves rolled up, three buttons undone, and white t-shirt underneath--Jared wears a fitted, perfectly pressed, three piece, charcoal suit. 

A killer headache pounds at the base of Jensen’s skull. 

Jared looks every part the respectable groomsman. And from the pride shining in Reginald’s eyes, he appears to be a loving son, an upstanding member of society, someone trusted and relied on. 

Why does this bother Jensen so much?

Reginald clears his throat and pats Jared on the shoulder. “Judging by your silence, son, it seems you might have already met my new friend Jensen.” 

Without missing a beat, Jared answers his father. “Jensen? Oh yeah.” Hearty smile. Flash of dimples. All charm. “He works at the record store I told you about.” No hesitation. No flustered stammering. Not even a pause to cobble together some kind of story. 

“Ah, so they are one in the same.” Reginald’s eyebrows rise. “Well then, I will definitely require a visit to that shop.” 

“It’s a cool place. Just don’t ask Jensen out. He shot me down.” Jared shoots a smile at Jensen. He places a hand on Reginald’s elbow. “Let’s go dad, Evan wants to see you before everything starts in a few minutes.” 

It could end here. The three of them could part ways and avoid each other for the rest of the afternoon and into evening. Then, after this wedding, they’d likely never cross paths again. 

Jensen’s headache and a tight squeeze in his chest force words out of his mouth.

“That’s right,” he blurts out, his tone clear and sharp, like a new needle on an old record. “Jared did ask me out and I did turn him down--because he asked for a one night stand instead of asking me out for dinner like a gentleman.” Jensen glares at Jared, then looks over to Reginald. He softens his tone. “Reginald, thank you for the company. It was much appreciated.” 

As Jensen starts to walk away, the headache makes him bolder than usual. And why not? What’s he got to lose? For added effect, he stops and looks over his shoulder at father and shocked son. “Also, Reginald, feel free to stop by the store. You could take a different approach from your son--I’d bite. Goodbye.” 

Oh, fuck yes. Hallelujah did  _ that _ feel good. 

Mountains of restraint keep him from fist pumping. Hello, rare opportunity where he had the last, scathing word. Goodbye, Mr. Hookup. 

Hiyami waits for Jensen at the large French doors leading outside to the ceremony. 

“You look mighty pleased with yourself,” she announces. 

“Thank you, I am.” Jensen holds the door open for her. “You know that moment where you say exactly what you want at exactly the right time?”

“I always say what I want, so it’s always the right time.” 

“Well, we can’t  _ all _ be that confident.”

“No, but you all should try it. You might like it.” Hiyami expertly drives her scooter over the slightly uneven pathway. “So who were you talking to and what did you say? That one dude was freaking tall. Too tall, if you ask me.” 

Jensen smiles and walks alongside her. His headache disappears. “Oh, no one. It’s not important now. So. Where do you wanna sit?”


	9. Chapter 9

Hiyami selects their seats with the strategic purpose of being as close to the pathway as possible. It doesn’t hurt that some of Amalia’s very attractive friends happen to sit nearby. She decides to stay seated in her scooter at the end of the row. Jensen takes a seat on her left. 

“So,” Hiyami says, turning off her scooter, “you gonna tell me about your magical morning with Ahmet?” 

Still riding high on his confidence streak, Jensen scoffs. “Uh, no, because there’s nothing to tell.” 

Every detail of the ceremony reflects a great deal of care and attention. Bunches of flowers tied together with fine white silk, delicate silver and gold tassels hung off of the back of every chair--it all leads to a simple, yet elegant setting paired with the sweeping, wide sky view of pine trees and mountains.

Jensen likes it out here. 

The view offers a distraction from whatever the hell Jared is doing. 

Not that Jensen cares. At all. 

He turns to Hiyami. “I didn’t mean to get shitfaced last night. And I definitely didn’t mean for Ahm to sleep at my place.”

“By sleep at your place, do you mean in your bed, and by in your bed, do you mean on top of you?” 

“Ahm woke up in my bathtub.”

“That’s kinky… for you.”

“Fully clothed,” Jensen grumbles. “I woke up in my bed. Nothing happened.”

“Physically nothing happened,” Hiyami quips. “But that doesn’t mean you didn’t have feelings.”

“It’s normal,” he insists, fooling no one, “to have feelings for someone you used to date.”

Only the sound of “Here Comes the Bride,” saves Jensen from spouting further pathetic explanations for his messy, complicated emotions. For the next forty-five minutes, Jensen focuses on the reason for his presence at this venue. He listens to Amalia and Evan exchange their vows, which are equal parts nerdy, cheesy, and incredibly heartfelt. Amalia beams as Evan quotes her favorite episode of Dr. Who. Evan laughs when she mentions the details of their first date. 

Coffee at a rooftop cafe.

Ridiculous jokes and terrible puns.

All while time flew by--from late afternoon to midnight.

In the presence of their family and friends, Amalia and Evan promise each other unconditional love.

Hiyami whisks Jensen back to the Great Hall to find their seats for dinner. In their absence, the staff turned down the main lights and flipped on the bulb string lights hung above them. The bulbs give off a dandelion glow. Flames from the votive candles at the center of every table dance and sway as people move past. 

Fresh cut flowers accompany the candles in the center. Hiyami and Jensen find their seats at a table with six other guests, all about their age. Jensen observes how neatly the gold napkins have been folded atop bone white china. 

A live band at the front of the room plays cheerful, instrumental old-timey melodies--plenty of trumpet here, trumpet there, aided by the occasional drum beat. 

Jensen declines wine offered to him by one of the servers and opts for water. 

He wants to keep his head clear, which is usually the opposite of what he wants, but wonders never cease. Hiyami introduces Jensen to the couple on their left. Over tomato basil bisque and warm baguettes, Jensen keeps up with a few conversations. By the time the mixed greens salad, with a god damn delicious champagne vinaigrette, he eases into the evening. 

Amalia swings by just before the entrees come out. She changed out of her wedding gown and into a white dress with a retro silhouette and sheer sleeves. Her pearl earrings shimmer almost as bright as her smile. Jensen hugs her tightly and Hiyami starts crying just like she did during the ceremony. Amalia laughs, pulls her in for a hug, and cries with her. 

When Amalia leaves to take a seat for dinner, Jensen hands Hiyami a tissue from the breast pocket of his suit. 

Servers set down plates of food. Jensen chose the grilled ribeye and garlic mashed potatoes. He digs in, chats with Harriet the Web Developer on his right, and sneaks a bite of Hiyami’s pork tenderloin. 

Harriet, thirty-something, Black, and killing it in a peach dress, ignores her date in favor of talking to Jensen and Hiyami. She flags down one of the staff and asks if there are any extra plates hovering around that maybe she can ensure gets a good home. Two seconds later and she invites Jensen and Hiyami to share an attractive plate of orange glazed salmon and truffle mushroom risotto. 

Jensen laughs at Harriet’s stories about her side job as a florist. Her boss scored Amalia’s wedding when Harriet introduced them, and Amalia got a great deal. 

“Many people,” she says, in between sips of wine, “think that the floral business is a piece of cake. But let me tell you. Have y’all ever made forty-three corsages for a retirement home’s Sweetest Day event in under three hours because oops, they forgot to place the order?” 

“I never knew,” Jensen giggle snorts, “that flowers could drive someone to drink.”

“Don’t get me started on funeral arrangements, Jensen. That’s where the drama’s at. I’ve seen two women beat on each other because they couldn’t agree on the kind of rose for this dude’s funeral.”

Hiyami cackles and claps her hands together. “Let me guess! Wife and mistress?”

“Ding, ding,” Harriet chirps and holds her glass up before taking a drink. “Get this lady a prize.”

The lights in the Great Hall dim, leaving only a few soft spotlights on the spacious dancefloor. Piano and bass guitar lure people out of their chairs and into each other’s arms for a cheek to cheek dance. 

“You know what I’d like for my prize?” Hiyami pats Jensen’s shoulder. 

“I have an idea and it’s R-rated,” Jensen snickers into his wine glass. 

“Say yes,” she challenges him with a jab of her elbow, “to the first person who asks you to dance.” 

With a resolute no, Jensen stands up and announces an expedition to the bar for something stronger than wine. Not that he wants to get trashed. But a little less cognizant of the events and people around him. Everywhere he looks, there are happy couples celebrating the union of a happy couple. From people his age to married couples in their eighties, everyone’s got their soulmate. 

Everyone except Jensen, who decides that his pity party starts now.

Maybe his soulmate slept in his bathtub last night.

The guy who happens to be married to someone else. Someone else being not Jensen. And while nothing physically happened last night, Jensen can’t say emotional things didn’t happen--or aren’t continuing to happen right this moment. 

Fuck. 

Fuck shit fuck.

The Great Hall shines with soft, slightly wavering light. Jensen makes his way back to the table and doesn’t immediately notice the extra person seated with Hiyami and Harriet. 

“He looks angry,” the person mentions to Hiyami. “Maybe I shouldn’t ask. Don’t wanna get my ass handed to me twice today.”

“That’s just his face,” Hiyami insists. “Go on, ask him.”

“Ask me what?” Jensen mixes his whatever he ordered with the neon green straw the bartender plunked into the glass. He looks over at the newb to their table; though his eyes land on the person’s lap. Judging from the outline and the way the fabric drapes, that might be a good lap to ride. 

But the person’s face spurs Jensen to blurt out, “Oh, fuck no.” 

Jared laughs and looks at Hiyami. “See? Told you so.” 

It could end here. Maybe it  _ should _ end here. 

The universe underestimates Hiyami’s powers. In less than thirty seconds, she has Jared and Jensen out on the dancefloor. With Harriet’s assistance, she practically shoves them there.

Dumped on the dancefloor halfway through an Andy Williams song, Jensen bristles and refuses to make eye contact. They stand with enough space between them to make room for the Lord, Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny. 

“I wanted to ask you to dance,” Jared pipes up, hands in his pockets, like he’s nervous or some shit. “So uh, you know, I asked your friends what they thought about it.” 

“What do you want?” 

“Uh. To dance. With you.” 

“Besides that.”

Jared’s mouth presses into a hard line. His brow furrows. He takes his hands out of his pockets and holds them up, like he’s being held at gunpoint. “Dude, I know I could have asked you out in a better way, but damn, who hurt you? Are you always this defensive or am I a special case?” 

Jensen huffs and shakes his head. “Look, you don’t have to ask me to dance as some kind of apology.”

“No,” Jared interrupts. “No, I don’t. But you see, I  _ want _ to dance with you. Just like I wanted to get to know you better after I finished fixing those lights for Amos.” The corners of his mouth twitch in a smile. “I assumed asking for a hookup was the way to do that. Definitely my bad. But now, I’m asking you to dance. That’s all.” 

Jared couldn’t have known that Jensen didn’t want to be asked out that way. 

Logically, Jensen knows he can’t keep holding that against Jared. But logic and emotion suck at communication and understanding. Inexplicable nervousness grips Jensen’s lungs. 

He could go back to the table. Or to the bar. Or outside. Or ask anyone else in the Great Hall to dance.

But god dammit, something prevents his feet from moving. 

“I get to lead,” he mumbles. He finally makes eye contact only to see the brightest hazel eyes in the history of hazel eyes. 

Jared grins and holds his arms out. “I’m one hundred and ten percent okay with that.”


	10. Chapter 10

Jensen braces himself for a dance as stiff as Jared’s tuxedo. 

This is going to be painful. Awkward. Horrible. His toes are going to get stepped on and he will have nothing to show for this dance except for further proof that the universe enjoys dicking Jensen around.

All he has to do is get through this dance and then he can get back to life as normal.

They stand at the edge of the mahogany dance floor and wait for the current song to end. The live band has been doing an excellent job all night. Jensen wonders if they play together outside of weddings or if this is their only focus. They’ve performed a balanced mixture of classic and contemporary selections.

“I wonder,” Jared says, swaying back and forth in time with the song, “how these guys would sound playing some Nirvana.” 

Don’t smile. Don’t react. Jensen crosses his arms over his chest. 

Jared continues. “I bet it’d be good. Frontman’s got the range for ‘Come As You Are.’”

“Nirvana wasn’t all about Kurt,” Jensen quips. Dammit. “The song worked because of Krist and Dave.” Of course, now he sounds like a jaded ex-boyfriend. Or a jaded groupie. Or just plain jaded with a capital J, underlined, and bolded. 

“Definitely.” Jared keeps his body language as open as Jensen keeps his closed. He makes it look so damn easy. “Though, if we’re being honest here, I’m more of a Pearl Jam fan. I bet these guys could do a great mashup of ‘Come As You Are’ and ‘Black.’” 

Jensen turns to face Jared. “What? That would be a horrible mashup.”

“Twenty bucks it’d be kick ass.” 

“Like you’re gonna go up there and ask them to do it here and now.”

“Well, maybe after cake.” 

As the song winds down, a few couples leave the dance floor. Jensen glances over to the bar. Just one song. Nothing more. He’d like to announce to everyone that the man standing next to him has terrible musical judgement and should not be trusted with song requests. Jared seems to have terrible judgement overall, considering that he’s risking life and limb to dance with Jensen. 

Not two seconds into the next song, Jared eagerly steps onto the dance floor and waits for Jensen to follow. He holds his arms out in an earnest attempt to get things started. 

Taking a deep breath, Jensen wills his arms to drop to his sides. This is easy. He knows how to dance and the band chose to play a more upbeat song. 

“Nirvana to Nat King Cole,” Jared teases, his tongue peeking out from his grin. 

Their hands slot together in a moment Jensen finds himself unprepared for. 

Holy shit, Jared’s hands are soft. 

And of course, Jensen turns out to be the one stiffer than Jared’s tuxedo. He said he’d lead but… everything happens all at once and he can’t properly process it or calculate his response. 

The piano opens the song--playful and light. 

Rich and smooth, the frontman sings every word as crisp as an apple. “I was walkin’ along, minding my business, when out of an orange colored sky…” Then the horns and drums burst in like exclamation points. “Flash! Bam! Alakazam! Wonderful you came by.” 

Jared places a comfortable amount of distance between them. He doesn’t pull Jensen in by the small of his back, which would be too fucking much. But there’s also not enough room for Jesus. He also doesn’t hold Jensen in a fumbling kind of hug. Nope. He lightly wraps his right arm around the middle of Jensen’s back, and holds Jensen’s right hand with his left. 

“I was humming a tune, drinking in sunshine, when out of that orange colored view, I got a look at you.” The frontman spins around on stage. During the instrumental break, he encourages folks to grab someone and join in. 

Jensen moves, but his brain and his legs struggle to communicate. Tense and irritated with himself, he tries to focus on evenly distributing his weight from one foot to the other and actually moving in time with Jared. 

After he gives Jensen’s hand a squeeze, Jared starts singing along. He sings like the energetic bouncing flame of a candle. “One look and I yelled timber, watch out for flying glass!” He takes an exaggerated breath to keep up with the next part. “Cause the ceiling fell in and the bottom fell out I went into a spin and I started to shout--I’ve been hit!” 

“This is it,” the band punches out, the drums perfectly timed. “This is it! I-T it!” 

Somehow, Jensen spins. Not in a bad way. In a holy fuck that was  _ fun  _ do it again way. 

Jared confidently pulls Jensen back, this time a touch closer. 

The frontman and Jared sing in unison, though Jensen mostly picks up the pleasant sound of Jared’s voice. “I was walkin’ along, minding my business, when love came and hit me in the eye. Ready for another spin?” 

“You this time,” Jensen manages to reply. 

“Hell yes! Fucking go for it,” Jared laughs, which makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.

What the fuck. They are dancing. Together. And not sucking. In fact, they dance pretty freaking well together. Maybe other couples are dancing more elegantly. Or more traditionally. Or whatever. It doesn’t matter because other couples cease to exist. The trumpets play quick, metallic, and bright. Not to be outdone, the drummer chases after the horns with bold punches of the drums and perfectly timed cymbals.

Jensen spins Jared. 

They come back, face to face, effortless, both conscious of the magnet between them.

“Wow,” the frontman declares, murmuring into the mic. “I thought love was much softer than that. Boy, what a most disturbing sound.” 

No one dislocates a shoulder. No one’s hips gyrate. Toes remain intact. Jared doesn’t even slouch. 

Flash. Bam. Alakazam.

The song ends. 

Their eyes meet. 

“I’m sorry,” Jared mumbles, a disarming smile issued. “I promised I’d let you lead.” 

Say something. No--Jensen can hear Hiyami in his head--say something  _ clever _ . Don’t just blurt out the first thing… “You dance good.” Or… just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, sure, why not?

They stay in dance position even though the song has ended and the band announces a brief break. Jensen looks at their hands, and notices the the grip Jared has on his--secure without being overbearing, firm but not forceful. 

Jared squeezes Jensen’s hand. Neither of them lets go, which should be weird. 

“You dance good too, Jensen.” 

Panic, that son of a bitch, makes its presence known by the erratic pounding in Jensen’s chest. He pulls his hand away, takes a step back, and regret and relief immediately sink in. Yet again, the universe finds another way to dick Jensen around.

“Hey,” Jared says, quieter and softer than before. “Thank you for the incredible dance.” He nods in the direction of a few tables. “I’ll be at table two in case you wanna swing by. If you do, you can totally ask me for my number. And… if you want my number, we could totally get coffee later this week.”

Before Jensen can reply, Jared issues a slightly nervous smile, then walks away, towards his table. Every few feet, someone stops Jared for a hug. Jared returns each hug, genuine and sincere.

He makes it look so easy.


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning, as they eat brunch in the two bedroom suite Hiyami booked at the resort, she grills Jensen on every single aspect of his dance with Jared the night before. 

Comfortably wrapped in the plush robe provided to him by the resort, Jensen pours himself another cup of coffee. If hangovers could have children, he’s battling a bouncing baby hangover. Small enough not to cause a scene in the bathroom. But present enough to cause pain in the base of his skull. Maybe this is what parenthood feels like. 

“This place reminds me of the penthouse suite in Pretty Woman,” he says, deciding that their day should start off with some normal conversation. He spreads strawberry jam on a piece of toast. “Am I Julia Roberts since you’re the one paying for the roof over our heads?”

Hiyami, also wrapped in a robe, raises her arms in triumph. “Success! I’ve made it to Richard Gere levels of living!”

“Don’t you mean Edward? Richard Gere didn’t play himself.”

“Oh, I bet  _ you _ play yourself.”

“Once in the morning,” Jensen quips, “and twice at night.”

“What’s it like?” 

“Playing with myself?”

Vile, horrible, and cruel sunshine filters in through the scenic windows. Mountains and forest provide a feast for the eyes. Too bad Jensen’s eyes want nothing to do with the sun or nature. Check out is in two hours, and all he wants is to try out the magnificent jacuzzi tub in his room, complete with a bath bomb in the shape of a cupcake. 

“Having a penis,” Hiyami clarifies. Jensen doesn’t like the way she bites down on a piece of breakfast sausage right after. “Tell me what it’s like to have a pickle just hanging there.”

Jensen snorts. “It’s bigger than a pickle.”

“It’s not a gherkin that you’re jerkin’?” 

“With Jergens,” Jensen cackles and slaps the table with his hand. “No! It’s not the size of a gherkin or a pickle or whatever. You sleep with people that have a penis. You should know.”

Contemplating this, Hiyami looks up at the ceiling. “Hmm. I guess. But I want more detail about what it’s like to just… put such little effort into getting off.”

“Because your vagina requires some kind of advanced degree?” Coffee. More coffee. 

“Look, it might as well in comparison to the junk you have to worry about. Vaginas require effort. You can’t just jerk and sail away. But also, peeing. It would make my life so much easier if I could just whip my penis out and pee into a bottle.”

“Is that what you think I do?” Jensen laughs so hard, it causes his head to hurt. “Do you think I just sit there on the couch and pee in a bottle when I don’t feel like getting up?”

“Look into my optic spheres and tell me you haven’t done it.”

“I have never.”

“Liar,” she huffs. “You sit on a throne of lies.”

“I’ve peed into a bottle exactly twice in my life. Both on road trips. Wow, totally not a sentence I thought I’d ever speak out loud. Way to go.” He moves in his chair and can’t help but notice that his cock also moves with the motion.  

With a nod, Hiyami takes a swig of orange juice. “Of course someone with a penis isn’t gonna be able to see how difficult life is without one. Do you ever think it’s annoying?” 

Jensen looks at her--straight in the eyes. “Do you really want to know?”

Hiyami looks at Jensen--straight in the eyes. “Yes.”

“Shit gets sweaty down there real fast. It’s like if you poured oil all over a hot dog and some clementines, then stuffed it down your boxers, then put all that into a pair of pants.”

Laughing so hard she coughs, Hiyami swats at Jensen. “No! No!” 

“Have you never blown a dude right after he went jogging? In the summer? For ten miles?”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Men,” Jensen declares, holding up a piece of toast, “are disgusting.” 

“Fuck yes they are,” Hiyami groans. “And it’s so unfair, too. Dudes--even trans dudes--get to be all, ‘You’re on your period? Gross.’ But they get to walk around with sweaty balls, long toenails, and armpit hair that has never seen a pair of scissors,  _ and _ , to top it all off, fucking bathe in Axe.” 

“First rule of Fight Club. Never date a guy who wears Axe.”

“Does Jared wear Axe?” Hiyami uses her forearm crutches to stand up. “Is that why you haven’t texted him yet?” 

Jensen rolls his eyes. “I knew it. I knew we’d end up right back at square one.”

“You won’t tell me anything, so maybe he does wear Axe and you just haven’t wanted to tell me. Don’t worry.” She reaches out and places her hand on Jensen’s arm. “There’s help for him if he does.”

Unable to keep from smiling, Jensen shakes his head. “He doesn’t wear Axe. He does actually smell good. Not that I was  _ that _ close to him last night. Or when he was in the store. How did we get from talking about my cock to talking about Jared?”

“Subliminal brainwashing techniques,” Hiyami murmurs. She leans in, bites her bottom lip, and adds, “I think I want to sleep with Harriet.”

Jensen stretches and stands up. He raises his eyebrows. “Harriet? I thought your goal was to sleep with one of the groomsmen.” 

Stirring her coffee, Hiyami shrugs. “That was my original goal. But then we kept talking. We have a fuck ton in common. And I found myself thinking… how pretty she looked in the candlelight.” Frustrated, she lets go of her spoon and pushes the coffee away. “I’ve never slept with a woman before. I feel like some kind of newb. I’ve always prided myself on trying anything at least once.”

Hiyami purposefully got them a two-bedroom shared suite so they could room together yet retain some privacy in case either of them chose to bring someone back for R-rated happy fun times. 

Turns out, they would have been fine sharing a bed, because the night did not end in R-rated happy fun times for anyone. 

“I don’t think you’re a newb if you’re trying something new with someone you’ve never tried things out with before.” Jensen sits back down and scoots his chair closer to Hiyami’s. He rests his elbows on his thighs. “I can be more eloquent than that, I promise.”

With a smile and a roll of her eyes, Hiyami waves Jensen away. “I know, I know. Thank you. Now go. Be gone. Leave me to devise my diabolical plan of asking Harriet out without coming off as pathetic.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, but sure, whatever.”

“Hey!” Hiyami punches Jensen in the thigh. “What happened to kind and supportive Jensen?” 

“He’s done for the day,” Jensen says with a scoff. “Back to your regularly scheduled program. Scooter? Chair? Crutches? Or you wanna holler at me later?” 

“Scooter,” she grumbles and tucks her phone into the front pocket of the robe. “You know, the worst first date I ever had was with some dude at a singles meetup.” 

Jensen makes sure the scooter has a charge, which it does, and lifts Hiyami onto it. “That sounds promising. Surely nothing could go wrong in that scenario.”

“I was desperate. I thought, ‘What could happen in a place as warm and inviting as a LaQuinta Inn?’” 

“Oh, so you mean you were young and stupid.”

“Yep.” After a quick check to the speed setting, Hiyami scoots towards her room. At the doorway, she pauses and turns her scooter in order to look back at Jensen. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know. Maybe this’ll work out for both of us and we’ll all look back on this and laugh.”

So far, life has not taught him to expect the best out of situations or people, but, in an effort to appear less jaded and more optimistic, Jensen nods. 

He retreats to his bathroom and prepares a hot bath. 

The cupcake bath bomb smells exactly like vanilla cake and coconut frosting. It doesn’t hurt that his hangover starts to retreat and the hotel provided a Bluetooth speaker for soaking-in-the-tub listening. Before he undresses, he selects a playlist on his phone titled, “Calm the Fuck Down.” 

In the sleek bathroom mirror, Jensen observes himself, naked and exposed. 

His mouth twists into a frown. 

Rome wasn’t built in a day. It wasn’t. So logically, he shouldn’t expect himself to go from sub par self-esteem to Tony Robbins level self-esteem in a day. Still. It’s always been incredibly frustrating to not be immediately good at something. And since he can’t immediately get himself out of this spiral, somewhere along the way he stopped trying.

Ella Fitzgerald sings and smooths out a small portion of Jensen’s ruffled feathers. He turns away from the mirror and slowly sinks into the tub, sighing at the press of hot water against muscles he hadn’t realized were holding tension. 

Seated, stretched out, and savoring the scent of frosting, Jensen reflects on last night’s dance.

Why is it, that when something works and feels right, he has to work so hard to resist it? 

He exchanged numbers with Jared. They each swapped phones and added themselves to their contact lists. Jensen got a quick peek at the background wallpaper set on Jared’s iPhone--a picture of a large golden retriever holding an equally large hot dog toy. 

Who doesn’t text back someone with a wallpaper like that right the fuck away? 

Jensen works at the B-side from ten to six tomorrow. In three text messages, he lets Jared know that.

There. 

Hopefully, they don’t wind up at a LaQuinta.


	12. Chapter 12

At six fifteen in the evening the next day, Jensen stands outside of his place of employment and waits.

Nervously waits.

Anxiously waits.

Impatiently waits.

All of the above times ten.

The B-Side attracted its fair share of… interesting customers today. Jensen sold a Johnny Mathis record to a woman wearing a big yellow hat, a yellow dress, and yellow Crocs. She paid with a yellow credit card and he glanced at her manicured nails painted, what else, yellow. Her brand of interesting was a pleasant reprieve from other brands of interesting, which included Rob and Bob annoyingly arguing over the quality of a REO Speedwagon album. 

Maybe making plans for a first date right after work wasn’t such a good idea after all. 

Maybe Jared would understand if Jensen cancelled. It wouldn’t even be cancelling; more like rescheduling. Raincheck. 

On the upside, during his time at the counter, he did not encounter any spiders, roaches, knives, bongs, or mannequin parts. That has to mean something. He dressed a little nicer than usual today--dark jeans, cleaner sneakers, and a black and gray button down shirt. Miraculously, he was spared from the dust bomb that hit Amos at the counter. 

That’s also got to mean something.

Jensen looks at his phone and debates going across the street to Charlie’s for a quick drink to calm his nerves. Rolling up his sleeves, taking a deep breath, Jensen makes the call and takes a step forward.

“Jen!” Jared rolls up in a hunter green Mercedes. He pulls up to the curb and continues to shout from the passenger’s side window. “Sorry I’m late! Would you believe that I got stuck behind a flock of nuns? No? A murder of crows?” 

Eyeing the car, then its driver, Jensen’s eyebrows rise. “Is this your car?” 

With an sunny laugh, Jared pops open the passenger door. “In a way. Why, you like it?” 

“Yeah,” Jensen says, climbing in. He tries not to gape at the luxurious interior. It takes restraint not to moan at the buttery leather seats. “I mean, it’s cool.” 

Jared handles the car with an almost eerie elegance and expertise. He drives North on 12th and weaves in and out of any traffic. “Well, I’m sure glad you like my car. And I’m sure as hell still surprised you texted me.” At a stoplight, he looks over at Jensen, eyes bright and dimples flashing. “So I got options for you. Option A, we eat first. Option B, we do a little activity first.” 

The way Jared says, “a little activity first,” carries a sense of mischief with it. 

And dammit if it doesn’t make Jensen smile.  _ Way to be a closed book _ , Jensen thinks to himself. 

The light turns green.

“Option B,” Jensen decides. “And what do you mean by this car is yours ‘in a way’?” 

Tapping the steering wheel, Jared makes a left turn onto Quimby. They sail past glossy apartment buildings, rows of street lamps, and neon blue trolleys. It might rain later, but that could be said at any moment in Portland. 

“I mean that my uncle owned this car first.” Jared’s left knee bounces, like he’s nervous, but aside from that, no one would ever tell. “He had it when he went to college, got married, got divorced, got married again…”

“Let me guess. Got divorced again?”

“Nah,” Jared snickers. “That one stuck. But my Auntie Shazz hated this car. Guess why.” 

“Uhh… poor taste?” 

Jared taps his own nose. “Bingo. But also because her hair would not fit inside this car. I swear to god. That’s why. You’re what? Six one? Two?” 

Jensen has never had a date ask him how  _ tall _ he is. He’s been asked how  _ lo _ \--clearing his throat, he answers quickly, “One.”

Sharp and cool, Jared quips back, “Don’t worry, we’re only gonna talk about height. I’m not stupid enough to be that rude. Again.” The Mercedes bypasses the 405 and continues on Quimby until 18th. “But okay, to my point! We’re tall guys, you and I, but we still fit pretty well in here. It’s comfortable, yeah? Auntie Shazz was five foot ten--not counting her hair. Yeah. Let that sink in.” 

And so Jared continues driving like one of the guys on Top Gear and dishing facts about his family like an older Southern momma passing the time on the front porch. 

There’s a lilt and pattern to his voice that etches into Jensen. Conversation flows from Jared as abundantly as the plum and cherry trees bloom in March. 

Holy fuck. 

Did he just compare Jared’s conversation to trees? 

And to make things worse, is he laughing along? Are those  _ his _ facial muscles stretching his mouth into a smile? What happened to the gut-twisting, sweat-inducing anxiety from before? Is this emotional whiplash? 

Out of anxiety that he isn’t anxious enough, Jensen asks, “So where exactly are you taking me?” 

The further east the Mercedes glides, the more the air becomes a veil of mist. There were a few hours of clear sunlight earlier in the day, of course while Jensen had to work. However, Jared doesn’t seem to mind the fog and the mist. His voice retains the same cheerful tone. 

“We,” he announces, sitting up straight in his seat, “are going to a cave of wonder.” 


	13. Chapter 13

Ten minutes later, a large man by the name of Stucky slaps a neon pink wristband onto Jensen’s wrist. 

What. The. Fuck. 

“What the fuck,” Jensen verbalizes, barely managing to disguise his extreme disappointment with the so-called cave of wonder. 

Jared nervously laughs and shrugs. “Don’t pay him no mind. It still goes with your outfit.”

How much would it cost to get an Uber from here back to civilization. 

Sensing that his idea for a first date might not be hitting a homerun with the crowd, Jared points out that he too was subjected to a wristband. Jared then, very helpfully, points out that they have managed to color coordinate their outfits. “That’s a sign that you shouldn’t kick my ass to the curb just yet,” he quickly adds. 

There are first dates at La Quinta Inn and there are first dates at Rowdy Roy’s Rippin’ Auction Extravaganza. 

Hiyami must never know about this.

While yes, it is true that Jared and Jensen match--Jared fills in a pair of black jeans pretty well, and his navy t-shirt does justice to his shoulders--that does not help explain the crimes against humanity on display here. The warehouse may be located in Oregon, but the whole thing screams, “Yeehaw! Welcome to the Lonestar State!” 

Someone thrusts a singing bass in Jensen’s face. The flopping bass screeches “Don’t Worry Be Happy” at a volume NASA has not yet discovered. Jensen fights to wipe the image of the bass’ bug eyes from the forefront of his mind. Dazed and confused, he stumbles past tables of knick knacks, tchotchkes, bric-a-brac, notion, potions, lotions…

“We got it all, folks!” Rowdy Roy’s rippin’ voice booms through a set of nearby tinny speakers. Maybe Rowdy Roy has a decent voice. No one would ever know--those speakers should have been taken out back and shot in the seventies. 

A set of flamingo pink towels that hail from Graceland, home of the King, supposedly used by His Highness and the rest of the Memphis Mafia in one of the guest bathrooms. 

Throw pillows with the likeness of Irish Setters embroidered on them.

Orange and yellow floral velour slipcovers with yellow fringe.

Hula girl lamps that dance when turned on.

A mural of Charles and Diana commemorative plates, all in pristine condition. 

VHS tapes that stretch a country mile--as far as the eye can see. 

Before Jensen can either scream or throw up--or possibly, both--Jared steers him towards a secluded corner of the warehouse. 

He gently places a hand on Jensen’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “You made it. This is the cave of wonder.”

Before Jensen can piece together a reply, Rowdy Roy himself steps over. Pale, perpetually sweaty, and rubbing his stomach, Rowdy Roy winks at the group of ten or fifteen people who made it through Yeehaw Country to this sacred corner of the warehouse. He clicks his teeth and momentarily takes off his ten gallon hat to fan himself. 

“Oh good,” Jensen mutters to Jared. “For a right quick second, I thought some poor animal had crawled into his hat and died. That’s just his hair.” 

“Before him,” Jared whispers back, “I thought mullets had gone out of style.”

“And you were proven wrong.”

“Dead wrong.” 

Clearly the star of the show, Rowdy Roy makes an attempt at warming up the crowd. Burly assistants haul dollies of some mystery product covered with dusty sheets. With a tug at his belt, Rowdy Roy sucks in a deep breath.

“I’d like to welcome everybody here to Rowdy Roy’s Rippin’ Auction Extravaganza--where you always, always, get the best deal. You may not see anything you need, but I gua-ran-tee you’re gonna go home with somethin’ you want.” 

It is as if god himself plucked this man from the armpit of Texas and dropped him in thiis here warehouse.

“Few rules before we start,” Rowdy Roy clarifies, winking at a few admirers. “Everything is sold as-is, where-is.” His words speed up. “Everything is sold cash, good check, or card. You want it, you buy it, but everythin’ must be paid for before you leave an’ picked up within twenty-four hours from this here spot.” Another tug at the belt and another suck of air. “Highest bid takes the item, ladies and gents. If you see a thing ya want, sing it out. If I miss your bid, that’s the Lord’s work, not mine. Now! Let’s have our first item up for bid!” 

Applause rings out from the crowd that has now increased to well over thirty folks. Jensen tries to keep close to Jared, worried that a tornado will sweep through and haul his ass back to Dallas. 

Jared slings an arm across Jensen’s shoulders. Ducking down, he asks, “This okay?”

A blush works itself from Jensen’s ears to across the bridge of his nose. No. This is not okay. Except it is. It really is. But it shouldn’t be. Should it? Did the singing bass fry his brain? Because all Jensen can do is nod like a fool who just missed bidding on the hula girl lamp. 

Two burly assistants push two dollies front and center. Rowdy Roy himself grabs each sheet and pulls them off with a flourish. 

Not two seconds go by before the crowd goes absolutely… silent.

Rowdy Roy’s smile never falters. “We got your records, we got your vinyl, we got your vint-age LPs.” He leans over to Burly Assistant One and mutters, “What kind of music is it, again?” 

Burly Assistant One offers a helpful grunt and shrug. 

“Classics!” Rowdy Roy booms out. “We got the classics here. This stuff never goes outta style, folks! Somebody start me out. Let’s say ten bucks.” 

Something big is about to happen, because there’s the tell-tale pull to the belt and deep breath. 

“Ten-gimme-ten-who’s-got-ten-ten-dolla-ten-dolla-ten-dolla-gimme-ten-dolla-okay-then-five-fiver-five-five-five-gimme-five-dolla-on-this-one-c’mon-folks-somebody-bid.” 

Miraculously, someone in the back shouts, “One dolla!” 

Rowdy Roy laughs. “You think I won’t take that bid? I sure will! Hey-got-me-a-dolla-gimme-two-two-two-dolla-dolla-dolla-gimme-two-dolla-bid.” 

Another voice from the masses springs forth. “Two!” 

“Two-I-got-two-gimme-three-three-dolla-bills.” 

A third voice from the crowd hollers, “Five!” 

Hold on. Hold up. Hold the god damn phone.

Jensen knows that holler. He looks at Jared, stunned, his mouth surely gaping open like that singing bass. 

Lit up like the Fourth of July, Rowdy Roy points at Jared. “Hey, now! That’s more like it! Five dollars from that tall, good lookin’ drink of water right there and his boyfriend! Anybody else? Once-twice-sold! What’s your number, young friend?” 

Jared checks his wristband. “Nineteen.” 

“Alrighty then, how many you want?” 

Oh no. Oh god no. He turns to Jared and grabs him by the shoulders. “What are you doing?! He wants five bucks a pop! That’s shit I’d put straight into clearance and try to sell for a quarter a piece!” 

Panic does not set into Jared’s face or his voice. Instead, he calmly places his hands over Jensen’s. “Hey, hey, hey. Slow down there. It’s by the crate. Not by the album.” He looks over at Rowdy Roy and issues his decision. “We’ll take ‘em all.” 

Pleased, Rowdy Roy whistles. “Okay friend, that’s six times the money. Wayne, Daryl, help our young friends out, then bring that next item up! I’ll tell you folks, this here next up is a real treat. A real beauty. A genuine one of a kind.” 

Burly Assistant One, Wayne, and Burly Assistant Two, Daryl, roll the dollies out to the parking lot and help Jared lug them into the Mercedes. Jared tips them five bucks a piece, then turns to Jensen, pride shining in his eyes. 

“So?” Jared chirps, grinning wide. “Your place or mine?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special shout out to Deb, who helped A LOT with this chapter and gave me the inspiration/reference/material to make it 100% authentic. <3


	14. Chapter 14

Jensen directs Jared to Extracto Coffee Roasters on Killingsworth. 

In the Woodlawn neighborhood, it’s a drive, but Jared insists he doesn’t mind. Like many coffee houses in Portland, it boasts single origin espresso, specialty coffee, intricate latte art, and coffee roasted in house. Unlike every coffee house in Portland, Amos approves of Extracto, despite its hipster clientele. 

It might have something to do with its owner, Mirabel. 

A Portland native, Mirabel runs Extracto with precision and skill. Her favorite coffee is the Sumatra Boru Batak, which is miles above the sludge served in paper cups at The B-Side. Amos brews exactly one pot of coffee from Extracto every morning he works and will only share if asked--nicely. 

Extracto also has an outdoor patio close to the sidewalk and therefore close to the street. This makes it an infinitely easier task lugging six milk crates packed full of records. 

Mirabel leaves the bar for a moment and joins Jared and Jensen out on the patio. Jensen helped her hang up the string of lightbulbs over the perimeter of the patio last summer. She bought them in Mexico City on a trip to visit her parents, who are now pushing eighty. The lights remind her of the shops in Polanco.

Her presence helps Jensen relax somewhat. She affectionately pats his shoulder. Her salt and pepper hair tumbles out of its ponytail, proof that it has been a busy day behind the bar. 

“Would you boys like anything to drink?” Her accent mixes Mexico City and Portland together. “I just put on a pot of the Pluma Finca from Oaxaca.” 

Jared’s eyes light up at the mention of coffee. “Oh my god, yes. Please.” 

Jensen slips on a pair of disposable food prep gloves he snagged from Mirabel when he first popped in and asked if it was okay to sit out on the patio and look through records. He had quickly introduced Jared to her, but purposefully refrained from going into detail. It felt odd talking about being on a date while actually being on said date. 

“Two coffees it is,” Mirabel announces. She pats Jensen’s shoulder again, this time with a small squeeze. “You find any Nat King Cole records in there, maybe save them for me, huh?” 

Amos is so damn obvious.

A few other folks sit on the patio with their drinks, chatting, sitting close together at their tables. Jensen worries about the amount of space in between himself and Jared as they sit on the bench seating, the crates at their feet. There can’t be more than a foot between them, but is that too little? Too much?

“Do you wear gloves at work?” Jared pulls out six albums and balances them on his lap to glance at each one. 

Jensen extracts about ten from his crate and spends less than thirty seconds appraising each one. Within seconds, wearing the gloves pays off. Whoever had these records before being brought to the auction clearly didn’t care about them. Dust and grime quickly latch onto the gloves. 

“Sometimes,” Jensen murmurs, feeling as if he was at work. “Depends on what I’m looking through.”

“I bet we find something super rare,” Jared chirps and holds up a record. “Like this!” 

It takes restraint for Jensen not to speak to Jared like a customer. He offers a small smile and shakes his head. “Uh, not exactly.”

Frowning, Jared closely examines his find. His expression turns serious, as if he were inspecting diamonds and not a copy of Boston. “What? How come? Boston’s cool. And look at the album cover.”

Is he about to shatter Jared’s Boston bubble? Probably. Jensen scrambles to figure out an explanation softer than what he’d use at work to a hopeful customer. “Well… there are multiple factors that go into determining whether or not an album is ‘super rare.’ One of them is the number of copies originally pressed. The more copies, the less rare it is.” Jensen briefly pauses searching through his own pile to take a sip of the coffee brought over and left on a nearby table. “That particular album was huge in the late seventies--I think it moved something like two million copies. Plus, judging by the amount of warp and water damage on the cover, I bet the record itself is jacked up.” 

Fuck. He’s at work.

Except that Jared doesn’t react like ninety-nine perfect of customers. He issues a tiny sigh, laughs, and moves on. “Just watch,” he teases, dimples flashing. “I’m gonna skip right past the holy grail of rare records and not even know it.”

“That’s everyone’s fear,” Jensen admits. He stretches, tired already from hunching over the first crate. “I once skipped over a mint copy of ‘The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan’ just because I’m not a huge Dylan fan so I didn’t think it was worth much.” 

“You know your stuff,” Jared says, his tone soft and warm. “Tell me what you like most about working with records.”

Through the next three crates, Jensen attempts to answer that request. 

Getting his hands on a copy of Zeppelin’s self-titled vinyl release in its rare turquoise sleeve sent chills down Jensen’s spine that day at the B-Side. Or a first pressing of “The Velvet Underground & Nico,” which was pristine. Or that copy of “Let it Be” by the Replacements, which was pressed on blue vinyl in a limited edition run back in 1984. 

More than handling rare records though, Jensen explains the draw of music. He plays guitar, knows his way around a piano, and likes to think his voice wouldn’t burst too many ear drums on a gig. But being a professional musician involves playing in front of other people, which is not something Jensen has ever been able to master. But like any good musician, he listens to everything. Pop. Punk. Rock. Blues. Jazz. Classical. Hip-Hop. R&B. And yeah, even Country.

At the B-Side, he takes full advantage of the musical buffet. Anything is worth a listen at least once, even Gramophone Royal Opera House records. 

There’s a difference between simply hearing music and really listening to it. Music contains some of the most profound messages humanity has to offer--in an infinite number of styles. Even the most mainstream pop song connects its audience. Music can be the celebration of spirit. It links people to something larger than themselves with no more than a tap of a screen or a drop of a needle. 

Jensen clutches a copy of “Fifty Greatest Polka Hits” to his chest, anxiety telling him to shut the fuck up, stop talking, stop yakking away, stop talking Jared’s ear off about music appreciation. It’s easy enough to wax poetic about working in a record store. He’s not gonna say a thing about the daily exposure to mold, dust, urine, insects, and mysterious sticky substances leftover from the sixties. 

“But uh,” Jensen coughs and hurriedly tosses the polka record aside. “I like it okay.” 

To his credit, Jared hasn’t fallen asleep out of boredom. If anything, his eyes shine with a sweetness that reminds Jensen of Mirabel’s cafe con leche. Jared closes his eyes for a second, then peeks back at Jensen.

“Those are some awesome reasons to like it okay. You’ve got a way with words.” 

“Thank you,” Jensen breathes. 

Jared nods and hands over a Nat King Cole record. “I finally found something someone wants.” 

“Oh, hey.” Jensen takes the record out of its sleeve. “This is actually pretty cool.” He leans towards Jared and points at different places on the label. “This is an Australian release. It’s on 180 gram vinyl, which is decent. Not super rare, but for sure worthy of any Nat King Cole fan’s collection. It’s in good shape.” 

“Do you think she has a record player?” Jared snaps off his gloves. “Also, what if I ordered pizza and got it delivered here? You know. Since we have a few more crates to go anyway.”

Something about the light on the patio makes Jared’s tattoos glimmer. The ripples of water inked on his skin seem to move, dreamy and soothing. 

“Yeah,” Jensen answers. “Amos gave her one for the shop. I’ll go grab it.”

“What do you like on your pizza?”

“Cheese, pineapple, extra sauce.”

“A man after my own heart,” Jared declares with a grin, right hand over his chest. “Finally, someone who doesn’t think I’m gross for liking pineapple on pizza.”

“Oh, I still think you’re gross, just not for that reason,” Jensen quips, adding his own grin. “I’ll be right back.” 

Holy shit, is he flirting? With Jared? And not humiliating himself? Or immediately regretting it? Or questioning it to death? Well, maybe he could improve on that last one. 

Two minutes later, he returns with the record player and a strawberry scone. 

“Hey,” Jared asks, in between bites of his half of the scone, “what’s the difference between the A-Side and the B-Side?” 

Jensen sets up the record player, thankful that it uses D-batteries. “So, a band would record their prospective hit on the A-Side, right? This is what they’d want people to listen to first or what they’d hope to use to get more listeners.” He examines “Stardust Melodies” and finds no major scratches or warps. It sits flat on the record player. “The B-Side gives you the opportunity to fit in another song. Stupidly, most bands would include some throwaway track or, ugh, an instrumental version of the A-Side.”

Finished with his scone, Jared resumes hunting through a crate, this time without gloves. “So if the B-Side is for songs that suck, why would your boss name his store after it?” 

The record player starts up without an issue. Excitement that never ages hums through his fingertips as he lays the needle down. He glances over at Jared. “Because that’s not how a proper B-Side should be used. It should have a track that supports the A-Side. Something that keeps you wanting more. It should be a bonus gem you give to your fans. Or someplace where you try something new, experimental.” 

Jared stands up and moves crates aside. He extends a hand to Jensen. “Okay, c’mon. We’re dancing.”

“What? Here? No.”

“Yes here.” Jared holds his arms out. “It’s a beautiful night in Portland. I just had two cups of amazingly caffeinated coffee. You’re god damn cute as fuck when you talk about records. Consider me charmed. Now I need to get off my ass and do some charming right back.”

This is where Jensen should insist on just listening to the record while they wait for pizza to arrive. Or that their time would be better spent digging through the rest of the crates. 

As warm as a cup of expertly made coffee, Nat King Cole sings. His voice is everything comfortable and serene--a fleece blanket on a cold day, basking in bed with nowhere to be, the surprisingly soft touch of Jared’s hands. 

Maybe it’s because they’ve already danced together once before, but their movements fall in sync after only a few steps. Jared’s right hand rests securely against the small of Jensen’s back. They sway together, as effortless as the music. All other sound vanishes. Nothing overlaps with the tranquil arrangement of strings or the singular mesmerizing voice.

_ Mona Lisa, men have named you. You’re so like the lady with the mystic smile. Do you smile to tempt a lover, Mona Lisa? Or is this your way to hide a broken heart?  _

Breathe.

_ Many dreams have been brought to your doorstep. They just lie there and they die there. Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa? Or just a cold and lonely lovely work of art?  _

Jared brings Jensen in close before letting him go in an elegant, twisting twirl. Jensen closes his eyes for the twirl, allowing himself that floating, drifting feeling. 

_ Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa?  _

The strings and voice rise together. 

Jensen leans in, merging, seamless. Jared leads without controlling. Refined. Artful. 

Their dance cedes to the pull of of that last question. Jensen answers it with a press of his lips against Jared’s. Active. Distinct. From single slow movements to a sequence of hungry kisses. Jared holds them together, their figures distinct from each other and yet still somehow blended in a gradient of cotton, denim, and pleasurable mystery.

The next song starts.

They neither stop dancing nor stop kissing.


	15. Chapter 15

Portland allows for exactly two more Nat King Cole songs until it decides to rain. This means that Jared sneaks in a few last, wet kisses before they haul ass to get the crates into Jared’s car and the record player back inside to Mirabel. Jensen leaves two records with her as a thank you before running back outside.

He ducks into the Mercedes and meets Jared’s eyes. Dimples flash in a suggestive, hopeful smirk. It’s barely ten o’clock, and even though a glance at his phone reminds Jensen that he has to open the store tomorrow, what the fuck.

So they makeout in Jared’s car for a while. 

Like freaking eighth graders. 

Jensen runs his fingers through Jared’s hair over and over again, tugging the same way Jared bites down on Jensen’s bottom lip. It’s everything and nothing like the way they danced. Their mouths don’t always line up in sync. There’s a little too much spit. A few seconds go by where Jensen is convinced Jared is trying to jam his tongue down his throat. Jensen pulls away, laughs, and wipes his mouth. 

“Sorry,” Jared mumbles, wiping at his own mouth, still obviously pleased with himself. 

“It’s cool,” Jensen snickers. “Shit, if that’s any indication of… wow. I’m stopping right there.” 

“Holy shit, were you about to make some kind of reference to the size of my dick?” 

“No! Yes? Look.” After a brief facepalm, Jensen shakes his head. He gestures vaguely towards Jared’s lap. “It’s not exactly… a secret.” 

“Neither is yours,” Jared quips and spreads his legs a little further. “Maybe don’t wear such tight jeans.”

“You haven’t seen my tight jeans.” 

“No, I’m pretty sure I have.” 

“Stop talking.” 

“You first!” 

“Get out of my car.”

“This is  _ my _ car!” 

Jared yanks Jensen by the shoulders and pulls him in for a heart-stopping, cock-twitching, toe-curling, Southern Belle swooning kiss. This time, there’s exactly the right amount of teeth, spit, tongue, and pressure. With a moan, Jensen feels his soul leave his body and his cock take over. A rush of warmth causes his hips to ache and without a second thought, he leans his head back and yields to the firm press of Jared’s teeth against his neck. 

Sounds of tell-tale hormonal jousting fill up the car. The windows fog over. The suspension complains, bitching about its over six feet tall occupants playing tonsil hockey. It only gets worse when Jared rakes his hands down Jensen’s back, his fingertips confidently snaking down, wringing a shudder and a moan from Jensen. 

Pleased, Jared bites down with added force. 

The noise that escapes Jensen’s mouth would make Dolly Patron pause, gasp, and smack his head for not going about this like a lady. 

Jensen twists and turns, thankful for the bench seat, but frustrated all the same. There’s no way to grind what he wants to grind against Jared unless they try to remake that one scene from Titanic. Jared continues to kiss down Jensen’s neck, and his hands grope what they can reach of Jensen’s ass. Rain drops pound against the windshield, teasing and tortuous. Jensen helps himself to the solid expanse of Jared’s chest--wide, like Texas. 

“...why are you laughing?” Jared mumbles into Jensen’s collarbone. “Jensen?”

“Nothing,” Jensen blurts out. “I didn’t just compare your chest to Texas.” 

“You’re a strange one.”

“Did I not, just a few minutes ago, tell you to shut up?” 

“Oh, excuse me. I’ll just…” Jared lowers his head, back to his previous work. 

“Yeah, there you go. Get it right next time.” 

Hazel eyes regard Jensen with excitement. Chin resting on Jensen’s chest, Jared smiles, his tongue peeking out. “Hmm, so there’s a next time?” 

Yes. No. Maybe. God dammit. Don’t hesitate. Pull him close, closer than he already is, and drink him in like a cold beer from the Hour Glass. Knock back the heady sensation of his hands, muscles, and mouth. Enjoy him, enjoy this. 

He moved a thousand miles away from home to meet new people, see new things, and break free of his parents’ smothering expectations. Doesn’t that include making out with a handsome, tall drink of water?

“Hey,” Jared murmurs, his voice as calm as a record turning with new needle. “I’d like to see you again for a next time.” He taps Jensen’s chest, then sits up and takes a deep breath. “Phew. We sure as hell did a number on the windows. You think I can replicate Kate Winslet’s handprint?” 

Jensen pleads with the muscles in his shoulders to relax and for his god damn emotions to leave him the fuck alone. 

Because if he lets his mind have its way, it’ll linger and fixate on how this is gonna end.

After he clears his throat, Jensen reaches out and places his hand over Jared’s on the space of seat between them. He gives Jared’s hand a quick squeeze before pulling back. From inside the Mercedes, Portland looks like a melting, drizzly, indigo landscape. 

The words knock around in Jensen’s mouth for a second before he answers. “Next time sounds good. You got anything in mind?” Before Jared responds, he adds, “You don’t have to buy six crates of records next time.” 

Jared starts up the car. He laughs, his profile highlighted by the lights on the dashboard and the glow from whatever world exists outside, beyond them. 

“Well, I was hoping we’d find something super rare. And it’s your pick for next time, just text me. I’ll be there or be square.” A certain drawl, mixed with another undetermined accent can be heard in Jared’s words—a melodious challenge. Jared glances over to Jensen. He smiles, sighs, and shakes his head. “I had a good time with you tonight.” 

Trying not to fidget, Jensen nods. He taps his address into Jared’s phone for the GPS, then sets it in the holder stuck to the dashboard. 

“Same here,” Jensen replies and works to remove the stick out of his ass which has caused his very bad mood for the past million years. He smiles, tilts his head, and studies Jared. “Friday?”

“Any time after eight and I’m all yours.”

A pleasant sensation strums against Jensen’s chest. Maybe. This is okay. His hands unclench, shoulders relax. He listens to the rain falling on the car and Jared lightly tapping the steering wheel. 

This seems suspiciously… okay. 

All too soon, the Mercedes pulls up to Jensen’s apartment building. Something pulls at Jensen to invite Jared up. Offer coffee. Keep this going. 

Experience, however, smacks him upside the head. 

He takes a few records he found interesting and tucks them under his arm. Jared promises that he’ll give the rest of the records a good home. Hand on the door, Jensen should say goodnight, exit stage right, and bow out of the scene with grace and tact. He should be smooth. Cool. Calm. Collected. Debonair. Leave Jared wanting more, etc. etc. etc. 

Instead, his brain decides to make a comment about the weather. “The rain’s a little heavier than usual tonight.” 

Jared grins like an auctioneer who unloaded six crates of records within a couple of minutes. He leans over, the sea, foam, and waves inked on his skin awash in the light from the dashboard and street lamps. With care, he presses a kiss to Jensen’s lips, then one to his cheek.

“Really?” Jared rumbles, his voice warm. “From where I am, the sun’s shining all over the place.” 

The second Jensen steps into his apartment, he knows he is thoroughly fucked. 


	16. Chapter 16

On Friday morning, Jensen mans the buy counter with Mike while Amos and Ahmet poke through inventory on the floor. Tiffany works on the window display in between ringing folks out at the register. Despite the rain, it’s been busy ever since Amos unlocked the front door. 

So far, there’s been a good mix of people bringing in merchandise to sell and customers buying merchandise. Jensen half-listens to Ahmet pleading with Amos to allow him to order more Radiohead, Neutral Milk Hotel, and Arcade Fire albums. Numbers don’t lie--they consistently sell with a reliable portion of their customer base. Ahmet has never had to mark down an album from any of those bands and there’s room in the section. Jensen would prefer to swap out Neutral Milk for the Pixies, but this is not his battle to win.

Mike works on a haul that consists of three crates and two large cardboard boxes. He seems to be doing well with it, only having to ask Jensen a few questions here and there about the stock and history of certain albums. Jensen answers the phone whenever it rings, checks inventory, tosses records to Tiffany to place on hold, and handles more difficult buys. Typically, he’d do all these things without any issue. 

Except that all fucking week he’s been zoning out like some kind of person with feelings. 

What inspired Jared’s tattoos? What led him to be an electrician? What does Reginald do and how did he and his son end up in Portland? Has Jared ever been to England? Is he aware of the attractive, alluring charm of his dimples and if so, can Jensen press charges?

The phone rings and Jensen flinches from the sudden, shrill sound. He quickly picks up the phone from the counter and answers with the usual B-Side greeting. Maybe this is that one lady who requested fourteen copies of Fall Out Boy’s “Mania.” Jensen set aside five--everything they had--and he thought he made it pretty clear that no, there weren’t any magical ones in the backroom. 

“You sound… stressed,” Jared declares, his voice crisp and clear on the line. “And way cuter than you got any right to be.” 

Jensen cradles the cordless phone in the crook of his shoulder and pretends to work. “I think you’re calling the wrong place,” he shoots back. Damn smile on his face won’t freaking leave. “We don’t provide sexual wish fulfillment at this establishment.” 

Jared laughs. His voice sounds so much more melodious than it has any right to be over telephone lines. “Holy shit, you don’t?”  

“Not until after hours,” Jensen murmurs while staring intently at a crate on the counter. He takes out one record in an effort to be productive. “Are you calling me at work to cancel or did you need a copy of William Shatner’s ‘Has Been’?” 

“I need three copies, actually. One for me, one for my dad, and another for a special someone.” 

“That special someone better brace themselves for the musical masterpiece of the twentieth century.” 

“Something tells me he already has.” Jared laughs, then clears his throat. “I actually called for business… kind of. Amos and I were supposed to talk lights today. But I was hoping you’d answer.” 

It is entirely possible that the sudden blush across Jensen’s face can be attributed to Jared. “Yeah, sure. I’ll put you on with him.” Before Jensen places Jared on hold, he decides to ask, “But we’re still good for tonight?” 

“Duh. I finish up with my last client at six thirty, so you wanna swing by my place at eight?” 

“Yes,” Jensen says, trying his best not to sound too enthusiastic. “Eight. Sounds great.”

“Do you want me to text you where I live or did you wanna drive around Portland honking and screaming my name out the window?” 

Jensen fails to suppress his laugh. “You  _ wish  _ I’d scream your name. Yeah, text it over. Hey, how much would you pay for a clean copy of ‘Master of Puppets’?” 

“...nothing? I don’t like Metallica. And woah, holy sexual innuendo there, Batman.” 

“Wow. You don’t like Metallica? Wrong answer.” Jensen sets down the record in question and desperately hopes no one--employee or customer--is within earshot to hear him. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” 

Did he just…? Say that? And not instantly regret it? Before Jared can shoot back a reply, Jensen announces that he’ll get Amos on the line and places him on hold. That was close. He almost felt his heart grow three sizes. Or maybe it was his cock. Because Jared’s voice on the phone is like a shot of finely aged whiskey. No. Stop. 

Amos grumbles to Ahmet about the lack of Janis Joplin, then takes the phone from Jensen. His grumbling switches to pleased laughter on a dime. Back at the counter, Jensen hears Amos invite Jared over to replace half the lights in the store a week from today. 

“Hey,” a large guy in khakis shouts, walking over from the Heavy Metal section. He looks like he’s eighty percent shoulders and five percent human decency. He points at the crate Jensen has been trying to work on since forever. “Is my order done yet?” 

“You know,” Jensen tells Mike, “I’d sing that one song, ‘Friday,’ if only I didn’t work the weekends.” 

From his section of the counter, Mike sighs and nods. “It’s Friday, Friday, Friday, gotta get down on Friday,” he says in a deadpan. “Fun. Fun. Fun.”

Jensen smiles and relays his deepest condolences to shoulders and khakis dude that it’ll be another ten minutes--at least. 

Only a few more hours and Jensen can forget he works tomorrow and Sunday.


	17. Chapter 17

Jensen bought his first grown-up bicycle two years ago from River City Bicycles on SE Martin Luther King Boulevard. 

The way folks in Portland spend money on bicycles is much like the way folks in Dallas spend money on steak. Hiyami hooked him up with a discount and it still took him three months to pay half of it off. Aside from renting his apartment, the bike was the first big purchase in Portland. And according to Ahmet, owning a bike made him an Official Portlander. 

Through main streets, side streets, and alleys, Jensen twists and winds his way up from the Pearl to Nob Hill. He tries not to crash into shit as he cranes his neck to look at Victorians, boutiques, and upscale restaurants that line the posh streets. He remembers the Bull Run Distillery from a secret B-Side outing a few months back, but can’t remember the particular details of that night. 

High-end condos glare back at Jensen as he huffs and puffs past them. Fucking. Uphill. Battle. Not to own a condo, but to just pedal the fuck up the street. This surely isn’t Jensen’s most familiar part of Portland, and he begins to second guess the decision to bike instead of drive. He turns off of crowded NW 23rd and dodges a few joggers before hooking a right onto NW Northrup, headed West. 

Pedaling a touch slower, Jensen wipes his forehead of sweat and begins to reconsider tonight’s plans. Why couldn’t he stick with dinner and a movie like normal, well-adjusted people? That would have been safe. Who doesn’t like dinner and a movie? 

Well. It’s too late now. 

Jensen stops in front of 2387 NW Northrup Street, which turns out to be a condo building on the corner. White columns and wrought iron fences in front provide the building with a touch of vintage flair everyone in Portland seems to be willing to pay four thousand dollars a month to have. That’s got to be the price tag of this place. Jensen runs the calculations in his head as he picks up his bike and hauls it up the flight of stairs to the set of navy French doors. 

Three immaculately dressed ladies exit the building without giving Jensen a second glance. 

He sighs, runs a hair through his hair, and presses the buzzer for #6. 

“You’re right on time!” Jared’s voice rings through the speaker. “I’ll be down in a second.” 

A bronze plaque on the side of the door reads: The Grace - Built 1911. Only rich people can afford to live in a fully restored, beginning of the century house. Do electricians make that kind of money?

As he waits, Jensen tries to take deep breaths. He rents a perfectly respectable one-bedroom apartment that requires careful budgeting for and frequent prayer that his rent doesn’t skyrocket every year. Why should he feel out of place? Hell, for the kind of money he pays to live in Portland, he could live like a freaking king in Dallas. 

Jared walks out of the building like a god damn dream. And it seems that they’ve managed to match yet again, the both of them wearing dark wash jeans paired with charcoal shirts. Jared, however, wears a v-neck instead of a crew cut, and paired it with a light gray and white polkadot scarf. 

“Hey,” Jared chirps, dimples flashing. He leans in and gives Jensen a peck on the cheek. His hand lingers on Jensen’s shoulder. “You look great.” 

“Likewise,” Jensen coughs. “I uh… thought we could bike over.”

It’s eight thirty, and the sun said goodnight a while ago, but that doesn’t stop any cyclist in Portland. Jared’s street glows with the buttery light of street lamps and outdoor string lights. Plenty of folks remain on the sidewalks and bike paths to take advantage of a clear, crisp evening. 

Jared’s eyes sparkle in the light radiating from The Grace. “Oh fuck yes, we’re totally doing this. There’s a bank of ‘em I can rent from around the corner.” 

They walk down the set of stairs. Jensen sets his bike down on the sidewalk and walks it alongside Jared. “You don’t own one?” 

“Well, I do, it’s just not here.” Jared walks without hurry. He glances over at Jensen from time to time, and speaks with lively hand motions. “It’s in Clovelly.” 

“Clovelly?”

“The most charming little town in all of Devonshire.”

“It’s like you’re speaking to me, I just know it.”

“Americans,” Jared snickers. He approaches the bike rental station with enthusiasm. With his credit card, he buys a pass, chooses a bike, and magic happens. Even more magic occurs when Jared begins speaking in a perfect British accent.  “I daresay Clovelly is the charmingest small town in the entire county of Devonshire. It’s a fishing village, cobblestone streets, fish and chips an’ all that.” 

Jensen stares, then narrows his eyes. “Are you drunk?” 

“Yes, Jensen, I’m drunk and the result is a British accent,” Jared answers, this time in a perfect Texan accent. It ain’t Southern--it’s Texan. 

“Quit’chur shit,” Jensen snaps back in Texan and hops onto his bike. “Explain yourself.”

“You met my dad. He’s the most British chap to British all over Oregon.” 

“Him I get. Am I gonna have to slow down for you, then?” 

“I would never, ever,” Jared insists, climbing atop his bike and standing on the pedals, “ask you to slow down for me--in a physical sense.” 

Jensen laughs and shakes his head. “I’ll make you regret that one day. Try and keep up.”

“What’s in it for me?” 

“Respect.”

“Does respect come with a side of groping your ass? Where are we going, anyway?”

Before Jensen leaves Jared in the dust, he shouts out, “On both accounts, guess you’ll have to wait and see.”


	18. Chapter 18

At their destination, Jared whoops in joy and crushes Jensen against him in an excited hug.

“A carnival!” Jared sets Jensen down as if Jensen weighed no more than a few crates of records. He presses his hands against his face and gazes out at the neon drenched scenery before them. “I… I might just cream my pants right here, right now.” 

Glitz, glitter, and glamour collide in an overload of FUN! FUN! FUN! Jensen hands Jared twenty dollars and shoos him towards one of the peppermint ticket booths. Three seconds later, Jared returns with two handfuls of way more tickets than twenty dollars could buy, which suggests a modest amount of his own money went into the pot. 

To the left of the main entrance sits a white tent, which houses a craft brewing competition all weekend. This becomes their first stop--Jensen shells out cash for a dry stout on Nitro, while Jared opts for a double IPA. Their bottles start to sweat within a few yards of the tent. The air takes on the combined scents of freshly fried funnel cake, crumpled dollar bills, paper tickets, hot dogs, carmel apples, sweat, grease, and cotton candy. Of all those things, the smell of corn dogs cooking lures them over to a nearby stall. Jared forks over twelve tickets for four corn dogs. 

“Maybe we should pace ourselves,” Jared debates at the last minute, looking over at Jensen for confirmation. 

Jensen finds answering somewhat difficult due to the corn dog stuffed into his mouth because he hasn’t had one in  _ years _ . “Buf wah? Ifsh gud.” 

“Holy fuck, Jensen, quit deep throating that corn dog!” Jared elbows him. “I’m fixin’ to be jealous here. And not a  _ little _ bit, either.” 

Finished with the first corn dog victim, Jensen takes a long swig of Jared’s beer and hands it back. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “There,” he mutters in a deadpan, “I swallowed--you happy?”

“In a very frustrating way, yeah!” 

Terrible early nineties and two thousands music blares over the speakers set up throughout the carnival. On “Barbie Girl,” Jensen beats the fuck out of Jared at a ball and bucket stall. On the “Thong Song,” Jared shows off his expertise in throwing dull knives against balloons pinned to a wall and wins Jensen a pair of pink plastic sunglasses. On “Redneck Woman,” they swing back to the beer tent, rescue some stouts, and discover the strongman game. Jared flexes and promises a show that will impress Jensen so much, he’s likely to swoon. 

After all the manly, macho bullshit, Jared hits as high as “Popeye.” 

Jensen commands Jared to step the fuck aside. He pretends to spit in his hands before he takes the hammer from the incredibly disinterested carny. On the first swing, Jensen hits, “Superman” and presents Jared with his prize--a stuffed penguin wearing a top hat and holding a rose. 

Music blurs into their excited shouts as they watch a few shows--the fire eaters, sword swallowers, contortionists, bullwhip performers, and the married couple who lie on a bed of nails. 

Jared tugs Jensen towards another row of food stalls. They continue a hedonistic journey to clog up their arteries with each food sampled more laden with grease than the last. Deep fried Snickers. Deep fried Oreos. Deep fried pickles. An awesome blossom. Nachos. Curly fries. Steak on a stick. Caramel apples.

“I can’t,” Jensen wheezes, patting his stomach. “Uncle. I call Uncle.” 

“No, baby, c’mon,” Jared wheezes back, clinging to the bistro table they’ve been eating at for the past twenty minutes in a haze of grease and sugar. “One… last one. The quintessential carny food. The top of the food pyramid. The King of the Four Major Food Groups: the deep fried Twinkie.” 

Jensen groans and shakes his head. “Dude, I already unbuckled my belt after those nachos.” 

“You mean you’re gonna quit on me now? You? A twink who could be eating this Twinkie?”  

“You’re not a twink,” Jensen snaps with a smile. “And  _ I _ am a mature adult male.” 

“Bitch, bitch, bitch. Let’s go halfsies on this.”

“Only if we do it Lady and the Tramp style.” 

“Are you trying to snog me over fried dessert?” Jared’s eyes glaze over in either a diabetic coma or pure affection. “Where the fuck have you been hiding in Portland?”

“Shut the fuck up and let’s go double dildo on this thing.” 

Two bites in, their lips meet in a hot, sticky, sweet mash of pure sin. Jensen makes a mental note to continue this experiment with deep fried Twinkie kissing at a later time and date. Preferably in the privacy of their apartments. 

Jared licks cream and sponge cake from the edges of Jensen’s mouth. Jensen finds himself leaning into the act, pleasantly buzzed, definitely turned on, and itching for more. 

The only thing that stops them from buying another deep fried Twinkie is the glare from a group of moms two tables over. Jared gives them a hearty thumbs up; Jensen pulls him away before the moms can attack.

They both get the bright idea to go for a precarious ride of the Tilt-a-Whirl. When they don’t throw up or pass out, Jared yanks Jensen over to the line for the Ferris Wheel. Once locked into their car, they start making out with sugar-sweat-soaked fervor. Portland may or may not look beautiful from the tallest height of the Wheel. Jensen will never know. He’s too busy palming Jared over his jeans, licking into his mouth and tasting Twinkie, cold beer, and gummy bears, and moaning litanies of praise. 

Treacherous thoughts sink into Jensen’s mind. What if he gets to his knees on the last turn of the Wheel. How much damage could he do to Jared and the impressive tent in those jeans in that span of time? 

No, holy shit, no. This is only the second date! He has standards, guidelines, rules! 

And the Wheel halts to a stop by the time he can sort through his thoughts. 

Shit. That was close.

Jensen climbs out of the car in a rumpled, wrinkled, hickeyed mess. Jared follows after him in a familiar state, except he has the most difficult time walking. 

Crowds of people continue to party and shell out money for food, rides, and amusement. 

Unfortunately, the festivities must come to an end for Jared and Jensen. Work and responsibilities call to them tomorrow, and as appealing as it sounds to lie down on the cool grass and make out, they could both use a shower. And other carnival goers might not appreciate their lie down on the grass in the middle of the fairgrounds. 

“I can’t find my keys,” Jared complains, leaning against Jensen. “Help me find my keys. I’ll tell you where to put your hands.”

“Your keys? I can’t find  _ my _ keys.” Jensen checks his pockets and his panic clears with the realization that they did not drive here. “Jared. We rode bikes.” 

Jared looks at Jensen with confused wonder, then pure horror, and finally, giddy amusement. He sums up their situation nicely. “We are so fucked.” 

“I’m fine,” Jensen scoffs and staggers towards the bike racks. “I got this.” 

“What about meeee?”

“You’re cute, you’ll live.”

“...you think I’m cute?” 

The words do not feel foreign, awkward, or wrong in Jensen’s mouth. They feel like the warmth of neon lights around them. “Yeah,” Jensen adds, looking over his shoulder. “I think you’re cute.” 

Beaming, Jared catches up with Jensen. They spend five minutes searching for their bikes and wrestle to work the locks. This can’t bode well for the next piece of this messed up puzzle. 

“I can’t,” Jared laughs and snorts, struggling to maintain his balance on the bike. “Fuck, I’m… Houston, we have a problem. Several problems.” 

“Amateur,” Jensen huffs. He grips the handlebars to his bike and starts to hop on like a god damn professional. Except his legs go weird and his sense of balance decides to self destruct. With a yelp, he tilts to the left until there is no more left to tilt--he lands on the grass, a mess of limbs and bicycle. 

Jared walks over and kneels down, laughing all the while. “You sure showed me, baby. C’mon. Up, up.” 

Firm, solid hands help Jensen to a vertical position. 

For a moment in time they stand chest to chest. Not kissing, not groping, not joking. 

An Uber with a bike rack magically appears five minutes later. 

The short time they share together in the backseat of the Uber, not an inch of space between them, feels more intimate than so many longer moments Jensen has shared with others in the past. 

He rests his head on Jared’s shoulder and closes his eyes as the car carries them to Jensen’s address first. Jared reaches over and places his hand over Jensen’s knee. In his British accent, he quietly sings along to the song that plays from their driver’s Spotify playlist.

Jared’s voice is a comfortable rumble. “Gee, it’s great after being out late, walkin’ my baby back home. Arm in arm over meadow and farm, walkin’ my baby back home.” He squeezes Jensen’s knee. A green light from the street filters into the car. 

“After I kinda straighten my tie, she has to borrow my comb.” Jared ruffles Jensen’s hair. “One kiss then, I continue again, walkin’ my baby back home.” 

This could be something great.


	19. Chapter 19

On Monday morning, at six on the dot, Jensen drives his ass over across the river to arrive at Slappy Cakes on Belmont. 

There are many hipster-things to do in Portland, but this has to be the one that takes the cake. The goddamn pancake.

“You look like a barrel of sunshine,” Jared laughs and pulls Jensen in for a quick kiss. 

“Oh god,” Jensen groans, mid-kiss. “You’re a morning person.”

“Early bird gets the worm.”

“Early bird gets his ass kicked. This place isn’t open for another two hours.”

Jared grins in a way Jensen can only refer to as hella fucking mischievous. The concept behind Slappy Cakes follows Portland’s dedication to being weird and staying weird. DIY pancakes await each customer, with ingredients made from scratch--or so Jensen has heard. This place is A) always busy and B) not generally his thing because C) he can make his own pancakes at home for way less money.

In his motherfucking English accent, which Jensen discovers might be a cure for morning grumpiness, Jared announces, “As it happens, bruv, the owners are mates of mine.” 

“Stop,” Jensen begs, fighting to squash his smile. “You think you can win anything if you lay some British on me, don’t you?”

As they walk up to the front door, Jared slings an arm around Jensen’s waist. “That’s rubbish,” he scoffs. “I hadn’t planned on laying anything on you until at least our fourth date.” 

“Oh yeah?” Jensen knocks his shoulder against Jared’s and yawns. “You talk a big game for someone who’s about to make me pancakes.” 

Jared knocks on the door. He leans against Jensen, pleasantly warm and solid. “When was the last time you got up for breakfast at six in the morning?” 

“Never, so you better make this good.” 

“Love, I make  _ everything _ good.” 

For that, Jensen punches Jared in the shoulder.


	20. Chapter 20

Buttermilk. Chocolate. Peanut butter pancake batter. 

Rosalee, Jared’s close friend from college, explained all available fixin’s. Chocolate chips. White chocolate chips. Blueberries. Strawberries. Bananas. Bacon. Macadamia nuts. Almonds. Pecans. Walnuts. Coconut. Butterscotch chips. Peanut butter chips. Apples. Pumpkin spice.

Then, the toppings.

Lavender honey. Lemon curd. More peanut butter. One hundred percent maple syrup. Chocolate syrup. Whipped cream. Cinnamon sugar creme fraiche. Chocolate hazelnut spread. Caramel. Pecan syrup. Strawberry syrup. Bourbon syrup. Greek yogurt. Peaches. Cheesecake pieces. Graham crackers. Marshmallows. Gummy bears.

Basically, instant diabetes.

It turns out that Jared went to college in San Antonio, where he studied American History. Halfway through his program, he dropped out and spent a year roaming throughout England. At a tiny inn in a village too small to be on any map, the elderly owners asked Jared to replace a light bulb in one of the guest rooms. He met all their qualifications: he was tall, he could see, and he was tall. 

Changing one light bulb turned into an entire afternoon of chores. 

But his mind kept coming back to that light bulb. 

Upon return to the States, Reggie pleaded for Jared to follow in his footsteps--become an investment banker. Join the exciting world of underwriting, aid in the sale of securities, and help facilitate corporate mergers, acquisitions, and reorganizations! 

Jared’s mother, who passed away five years back, told him to hell with investment banking. She was born and bred in Plano, to a line of door-to-door salesmen, plumbers, and roofers. At every family reunion on her side, there was no shortage of hilarious stories from the frontline of blue collar America. Many stories started with, “Hold my beer, let me tell you sumthin’...”

At every family reunion on Reggie’s side, as she wisely she pointed out, there was a scandal if someone didn’t wear the right kind of pocket square. 

Jared grew up bouncing back and forth between Texas and England--two places that couldn’t be more fucking different if they tried. But both places needed electricians. So, he applied to the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers and filled out grueling paperwork for an apprenticeship. After six hundred hours of in-class instruction on safety principles, electrical circuits, and blueprint reading, he worked for Mitch, of Sanders & Son’s Electric Company.

He learned on the job, studied and took tests at the local and state level, and applied for his license. His mother died a week after he got his license from the state of Texas. 

Hours later, at The Hour Glass, Hiyami and Tucker raise their glasses in respect once Jensen finishes relaying his morning. 

Jensen nods in thanks. “Yeah, but he kinda changed the subject right after that.”

“But y’all had fun,” Tucker says, then takes a swig of beer. “Right? I’ve always heard good things about Slappy Cakes.” 

“Of course they had fun,” Hiyami chimes in. “He’s practically glowing. Look at him. All rosy-cheeked and flustered. It’s a goddamn miracle.” 

“Am not,” Jensen coughs. He hides behind his beer. “And yeah, we had fun. I didn’t think it was possible to make so many pancakes in the shape of dicks, but he proved me wrong.”

Rolling her wheelchair a tad closer to Jensen, Hiyami leans in. “Speaking of dicks, have you seen his yet?”

Tucker laughs and shakes his head. “I hope he made some that were anatomically correct.”

“Correct to  _ his _ anatomy,” Hiyami murmurs with a grin. She knocks back the last of her beer and Tucker stands to bring back another round. 

The usual crowd haunts The Hour Glass on Friday night. Jensen already apologized for not swinging by last Friday by buying the first round. He told Hiyami and Tucker about the auction, the carnival, and the pancakes. He hasn’t seen Jared since Monday morning, but they text every day, like a couple of teenagers. Jared has a fondness for the eggplant emoji that Jensen rivals with the use of the crying/laughing tears of joy face. 

His last text to Jared might have said something like, “Having a beer, wish you were here.” 

Who the hell would have thought he’d turn out to be such a sap? It almost-- _ almost-- _ feels unreal to him. Maybe his heart has grown three sizes. Fuck. Maybe he  _ is  _ glowing. 

Out of no-fucking-where, Ahmet appears. He’s dressed in a pair of jeans Jensen bought him what seems like forever ago; he knows because how many pairs of jeans have purple stitching. And there’s that tear in the right knee, acquired from an ill-advised hike in the rain. 

They had climbed rocks and trails for a few soggy hours in the rain, cracking jokes, arguing over the best Zeppelin album, and trading stories from their adolescent  _ This Ain’t a Scene, It’s an Arms Race _ Periods. Then, in a stunning display of physical prowess, Ahmet slipped on a rock. Fortunately, he walked away from it with only a few cuts and scrapes.

It had been one of Jensen’s favorite dates. 

Something in his brain points out the keyword in that sentence:  _ had _ .

“Room for a fourth?” Ahmet’s question snaps Jensen back to the present. 

“Wow,” Tucker says, saving Hiyami and Jensen from the task of replying. He places new beers on the table, then, with a smile, looks Ahmet up and down. “Look what the cat dragged in. Finally good enough to join us, huh?”

Ahmet laughs and claps Tucker on the back. He takes a seat in between Jensen and Tucker. “I’m sorry, guys. It’s been tough to get out. Austin doesn’t like bars. I’ll put twenty bucks in for Keno later on.”

“If you must,” Hiyami sighs. “Let me guess--the hubby is out of town.”

“You got me.”

“Conference?”

“Yup.” Ahmet takes a drink from Jensen’s beer. “I’m a free man for another…” He pretends to look at his nonexistent watch. “Twenty-two hours and fourteen minutes. So. What are we talking about tonight? Anything I can sink my teeth into?”

Jensen remembers how Ahmet used to sink his teeth into… no. “Nope,” Jensen blurts out. “Nothing of the sort.” 

Returning with a beer for Ahmet, Tucker nods towards Jensen. “We’ve been interrogating this one about his new man-crush--they made pancakes together this week.”

“Right,” Hiyami snickers. She sits back in her chair and goes in for the kill. “That means it’s getting hot and heavy. So answer my question--have you or have you not seen his dick? Please share with the rest of the class. Extra credit if you describe it in great detail.” 

Typically, Jensen has no issues discussing sex, sexual urges, or sex-related topics in the middle of The Hour Glass. On a good night, with enough beer, he might even demonstrate certain things. 

A text flashes on his phone--three eggplant emojis, followed by four bananas, and one kissy face. 

Two seconds later--two winks.

“We were just about to talk about something else,” Jensen insists and quickly picks up his phone from the table. He turns to Hiyami and shoots her The Look. “If you’re trying to drive me crazy, it’s too late.” 

“I wonder what eggplants could mean,” she muses, tapping her chin. “Text him back a few heart eyes, fireworks, and a banana split.”

“There’s no banana split.”

“Okay, then give him the finger.”

Tucker enables her by chiming in with, “Unless he already gave  _ you _ the finger.”

“Y’all are so fucking immature,” Jensen grumbles and shoves his phone into his pocket. “I am Officially Changing the Subject--you vultures. There are Southern church ladies who aren’t as nosy as you two.”

Ahmet leans forward and smiles, but the smile seems… off. “I wanna hear about your man-crush. Though you can spare me the details about his dick. I’ll let Ami have those.”

Hesitation tugs at Jensen out of habit. He used to eagerly tell Ahmet about his dates and one-nighters in an effort to prove how over  _ them _ he was--when the exact opposite was true. 

Now, when it is less a lie and more of the truth, the details are a lot less forthcoming. 

His hands itch to check his phone again and reply. Good fucking lord, this must be the Twilight Zone.

Jensen shrugs and starts to peel the label off his beer. He avoids eye contact with anyone at their table. “There’s not much to tell. Jared’s…” A variety of words rest on the tip of his tongue, much like the desire to have Jared on the tip of… no. Focus. Marvelous. Wonderful. Punctual. No. Wrong word. “Fun.” 

“Fun?” Hiyami slams down her beer. “You had goo-goo eyes for days and now he’s just… ‘fun’? Fuck, I’m surprised you aren’t writing down Mrs. Padalecki in your diary every night.” 

“Ackles-Padalecki,” Jensen mutters, fourteen shades of red all over his face. “I’m an independent woman, thank you very much.”

Hiyami rolls her eyes in disgust. “Fine, be difficult. Take away my joy. What else are we supposed to talk about?”

“What’s he do?” Ahmet nudges Jensen’s elbow. 

“Not Jensen,” Hiyami snaps. “He’s an electrician.”

“I just wanna take my time with him,” Jensen clarifies, then takes a swig of beer. “Let him work for it.”

“Work for what, exactly?” Tucker grins. 

In a deadpan, Jensen replies, “My virginity, asshole.”

“Your virginity or your asshole?” Hiyami high-fives Tucker. “See what you’re missing, Ahmie? There you are, every Friday night, comfortable in the fact that someone loves you when you could be here with us, talking about Jensen’s asshole.”

Ahmet laughs. “Has it changed that much, though?” 

Unable to tolerate this treatment, Jensen makes an excuse to get the next round and leaves the table. He walks up to the bar and leans against it, taking his time to get Michelle’s attention. As he waits, he pulls out his phone. 

“I’m naked, doing laundry,” Jared texted. “Wish *you* were here, even if that’s tawdry.”

“Who the fuck uses the word, ‘tawdry’?” 

“Hello????? I’m British?????”

“Yeah, well, I dumped tea in your harbor.”

“I thought we were rhyming??” 

“We were. Then you ruined it by being British all over the floor.”

“Fuck, I can’t think of what to say to you dumping tea in my harbor.”

“Can’t help you there, Austin Powers.”

“Oh, behave.”

“Nice.”

“I’d ask you if I make you horny, but I have proof.”

“You do not!”

“Yeah I do. You were not subtle on that Ferris Wheel, dude.”

“Excuse me, I was eight inches of subtle,” Jensen quips, thumbs texting at lightning speed. He’s smiling into his phone. Floating. High on motherfucking life. Michelle takes his order and doesn’t rush to fill it. 

“I’ll let you tell it, eight inches and all. When am I seeing you next?”

“Sunday? I work until eight.”

“I promised my dad I’d have dinner with him. Monday?”

“I close.”

“Shit. Tuesday?”

“Close again. Thursday?”

“After-hours rewire job at a school, Friday too. Saturday?”

“Guess what? ...I close.”

“Well, fuck, I don’t wanna wait that long to see you. How’s your schedule look in the next… fifteen minutes?”

“To do what, exactly?”

“I’m thinking of something, let’s see if you can guess it and how long it’ll take.”

“If it has anything to do with eggplants, I’m out.”

“Baby, that’s British foreplay.”

“...I guess six minutes, and two of those minutes are you apologizing.”

“Harsh! You wound me! Fine, be stingy. Have dinner with me and my dad on Sunday. Then I’ll go for your Bunker Hill.”

Jensen covers his mouth to stop from laughing and snorting. “I can’t with you. I can’t even. Yeah, I’ll have dinner with you… and your dad. Maybe just your dad at this point.”

“Trust me, you’re better off dating me, not my dad. He doesn’t have the pancake hook up like I do.”

Before Jensen can ask what time and where, Ahmet walks over and holds up a twenty dollar bill. His smile reaches his eyes this time. “I got this round.”

“Thought you were gonna go in on Keno,” Jensen says, and reluctantly tucks his phone away. 

A few regulars at the bar acknowledge Ahmet with either a nod or a handshake. “I am,” he answers. “But I figure this might make up for skipping out on you guys for so long.” 

“Might take two rounds.”

“No,” Ahmet gasps. “Not that.”

“Just don’t wind up in my bathtub tomorrow morning. Pace yourself.”

With a shake of his head, Ahmet sighs. “What did we drink that night?”

“Whatever it was, I ain’t touching it again--I have to work tomorrow. So…” Jensen clears his throat, his phone burning a hole in his pocket. “How’s Austin?”

“Oh, you know,” Ahmet mumbles. He looks anywhere but at Jensen. “He’s good. Busy with work. I’m busy with work. Amos wants to expand stuff, then we got inventory. I mean. You know. So we hardly see each other.” His brow furrows. “Funny how sometimes you can live with someone and communicate via Post-It notes on the fridge.” 

Uh oh.

“Or like, you share your life with someone and you feel like you hardly know him.” 

Jensen flags Michelle down.

And orders something stronger than beer for himself and Ahmet.

It’s fixing to be a late night.


	21. Chapter 21

On Sunday morning, Hiyami drags Jensen’s slightly hungover ass out of bed and out for brunch.

She makes sure he throws some clothes on and all that, but in his seat at The Waiting Room, he can’t quite piece together how exactly they got there. 

“Oh god,” Jensen groans, elbows on the table, face in his hands. “Does everyone have to talk so loud?” 

Hiyami leans in like she’s going to whisper in his ear, then shouts, “DO YOU WANT OYSTERS OR CAVIAR, JENSEN? JENSEN? OYSTERS OR CAVIAR?” 

With a hiss, Jensen covers his head and tries to drown out Hiyami and the rest of the chipper brunch crowd around him. The Waiting Room is not his scene. Brunch isn’t his scene. No one fucking pays eighteen dollars for waffles--no one in their right mind. And although their motto is Southern hospitality, they’re in the goddamn Pacific Northwest. And any true Southerner would know to never mix okra with wasabi. 

Fuck, the thought of wasabi makes his stomach roll. 

“I think I’ll have a plate of deviled eggs,” Hiyami muses. She sits forward in her scooter. “Maybe some steamed clams. They come with a side of fermented mustard greens, mmm.” 

“Why do you hate me?” Jensen whines, squeezing his eyes shut. “All I wanna do is throw up and go back to bed like normal people.”

“Or maybe the Beef Carpaccio with olive oil, white anchovy, black truffle, and blue cheese powder.” 

“I’mma throw up right here.”

“Good. It’ll look just like the pimento cheese grits with the sauce piquante I’m going to order. You won’t look so out of place.”

The world as Jensen knows it continues to mimic the stormy seas of the Pacific. This is a hangover for the books--a blue ribbon prizewinner for sure. Is he awake? Is he dreaming? Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? May the spirit of Freddie Mercury help him. Maybe it’s the ghost of Freddie that places a large glass of water with a slice of lemon in front of him. He could sob. Thank you, thank you kind stranger. 

He tries to grab for the glass, but his limbs feel heavier than his mother’s recipe for banana pudding pie. 

His eyes refuse to open completely, as if he transformed into a newborn kitten. 

All in all, this hangover really fucking sucks. The dull ache that had been in his skull all night blossoms into a beautiful butterfly of throbbing, stabbing pain. 

Hiyami huffs and orders food from the ghost of Freddie. 

Jensen attempts to reposition himself in his chair. Why are the bottoms of his sneakers sticky? His soul leaves his body when he realizes the cause--a used, neon green condom has attached itself to his sneaker.

“I was wondering when you’d notice,” Hiyami murmurs and takes a sip of her Bloody Mary. 

Eyes wide, Jensen chokes on his spit. “H-o-o-ow did… why didn’t you tell me?!”

“You’re an adult.”

“Gee, thanks, mom. Oh god this is so fucking gross.” It won’t come off. Gold medal to the once-occupant of this condom because they have come like super glue. Wait. Hold up. “Holy shit, is it mine?” he blurts out. “Did I have sex last night?” 

Hiyami was his first real friend in Portland. Before she graduated from OSU, she worked with Jensen at The B-Side. Out of their group of friends, Jensen and Ahmet are the only ones still working there. Amalia secured a full-time job at her internship, Hiyami earned her Master’s degree in Biomedical Engineering, and Noel moved to New Mexico to work on writing some book about archaeology. 

Fuck. 

“I think you need to stop hanging out with Ahmet outside of work,” Hiyami announces, her words as sharp as the toothpicks speared through olives in her Bloody Mary. “And I think you need to put the brakes on your alcohol intake for a while.” 

This isn’t the Sunday morning Jensen had planned. He wanted to sleep in, eat something greasy, sleep more, put himself together, pick up a bottle of wine from the liquor store around the corner from his place, and head over to Jared’s for dinner. 

Greasy food arrives, but it’s all wrong. He doesn’t want smoked pork shoulder with a side of celery root puree and brandied mustard jus. 

His mouth is so dry, he could spit sand.

“Ahmet’s going through a…” Jensen’s brain stalls. “A rough patch.”

“Yeah, a rough patch with his  _ husband _ ,” Hiyami clarifies. “Instead of getting blackout drunk with his ex-boyfriend, he needs to face the goddamn music and either shit or get off the pot.”

“He invited me out,” Jensen grumbles and rubs his eyes. He remembers the condom that might as well be stapled to his sneaker. “Tell me this condom doesn’t belong to me  _ or _ him.” 

Hiyami rolls her eyes. She digs into her fried chicken and waffles. “Jensen, you can be really fucking stupid sometimes.” 

“I know, I know,” he scowls. “But right now I’m having this thing called a panic attack about shit I can’t remember from last night.”

“I’ll take Jensen Needs an Intervention for five hundred, Alex.”

“Five hundred isn’t a dollar value in Jeopardy anymore.” Hi, brain. Welcome back. He sits up in his chair and resolves to deal with the condom soon. Just not right this second. “Do you have some Tylenol?” 

“No painkillers until you eat something.”

Jensen picks up a fork and pokes at the plate of plain waffles with syrup in front of him. He struggles to replay last night in his head. They closed up the store with Mike. Jensen wanted to go to The Hour Glass, where Hiyami and Tucker were, Mike suggested a sports bar, and Ahmet… 

A shudder zips through him. “We went to Scandals,” he gasps in realization, one hand over his mouth. 

The expression on Hiyami’s face reads: yes, you dumbass. 

“Then…” Jensen starts, but fails to piece together anything else. 

“Then you called me. Then you texted me. Then you called me again,” Hiyami relays. “Then you called Tucker. You told him what a super friend he is. Then you called your mom.”

“My mom?!” Fear grips Jensen’s entire being. 

“Yes,” Hiyami replies, her tone somber. “You drunk dialed your mother.”

Shit. Shit-fuck-shit-shit- _ shit _ . By now, the entire state of Texas knows about this. Fuck, by now, his mother could very well be on a direct flight to Portland, clutching at Jensen’s baby pictures, sobbing to the flight attendants that she has no idea how her baby could have been led so astray. Here he is in Portland, going to gay bars with his ex-boyfriend, getting piss drunk, making questionable life choices while his older brother is a doctor and his younger sister is double majoring in Physics and Biology at UTA. 

Wait.

If he drunk dialed Hiyami, Tucker, and his  _ mother _ … 

Jensen checks his phone faster than his mother’s church ladies with fresh, hot gossip. No drunk dials or texts to Jared. Thank fuck. Bullet dodged. 

“I’m fucking up my life somethin’ fierce,” Jensen sighs and rubs his temples. 

Reaching over, Hiyami pats Jensen’s shoulder. “There, there.”

“I’m having a quarter-life crisis and that’s all you can say?”

She shrugs. “I already said my shit. You want more, get a therapist.”

“What?” Jensen meets her eyes. “You’re mad at me.”

“Yes and no.” Hiyami finishes her Bloody Mary and hands the empty glass off to their waiter, who is no longer the ghost of Freddie Mercury. She folds her arms over her chest. In her navy blue dress and pearl earrings, she looks like she belongs here at The Waiting Room. 

Jensen has on his rattiest Nirvana shirt, the one with the holes in the hem, and a pair of sweatpants. 

And the condom. It might as well be an accessory now.

“My parents are conservative Japanese Catholics,” Hiyami begins. “I know a thing or two about guilt trips and interventions and holy shit, Jensen, you need both.”

Ouch.

Her posture relaxes and she places her hand over his on the table. “I love you, dearest fuck up of mine. We’re all fuck ups--you, me, and Tuck. But from one fuck up to another--you’re on the highway to nowhere good.” 

“They’re having problems,” Jensen replies, scrubbing at his face. “Ahmet wanted someone to lean on.”

“I get that, but he’s a grown up. He can find a therapist and lean on them for a hundred bucks an hour.”

“So I can’t be his friend?”

“Not like this, Jensen. I don’t see this turning out well for you if you keep calling me at three in the morning, crying and asking me to come pick you up from Scandals.” 

Muscles in Jensen’s shoulders tense up. “I did what?”

Hiyami hands over two extra strength Tylenol. “You heard me, hangover boy. You’re lucky I found an accessible Uber at three in the freaking morning or your ass would have been shit out of luck.” 

The Waiting Room fills up with people. All the noise causes Jensen’s nausea to return full force. The few bites of waffles unpleasantly mix with the Tylenol. Why does everyone have to talk so loud? 

He withers in his seat, afraid of the question, but even more afraid of the answer. “I didn’t do anything with Ahmet, did I?”

“You were  _ this _ close,” Hiyami answers. “And that’s why you were crying--because you  _ like _ someone else. Someone who doesn’t date you, dump you, and marry their high school flame two weeks later. Ahmie’s problems are  _ his _ problems. Not yours. It sucks that he’s having a rough time with Austin. But he made his bed and he’s gotta figure out a way to un-make it without bringing you down with him.”

Oh.

“You’re starting something new and exciting with someone new and exciting,” she continues, her eyes and tone brighter. “Someone who’s emotionally available and willing to see things through to the next level--whatever you decide that is. Don’t fuck up something awesome with the potential to be even more awesome for something you’ll regret later.” 

That… sounds reasonable. 

“The condom isn’t yours or Ahmet’s,” Hiyami adds. She hands the check over to Jensen, who takes it without a second of hesitation. “I hauled your sorry butt home and saw it on your shoe, but no way in hell was I touching it. I don’t know what you stepped in last night, but it apparently loves you and wants to marry you. Also, your coworker Mike was there to witness your meltdown. He’s nice.. I’d probably thank him next time you work together.”

Emojis pop up on Jensen’s phone: two hearts, one eggplant, and three cups of coffee. 

For the first time all morning, Jensen smiles. His lips feel chapped and it tastes like something died in his mouth, but the smile warms him from head to toe. 

“Three hearts,” Hiyami instructs. “Two eggplants. Four flames.”

“Flames?” 

For the first time all morning, Hiyami laughs. “Yeah, because you and  _ your  _ eggplant are burning up for him and  _ his  _ eggplant.” 

Three hearts. Two eggplants. Four flames. 

Jared replies two seconds later. “Oh, behave. ;) I’m making zucchini boats for dinner. Your job is to guess which one is the closest to the actual size of my...” Three eggplant emojis and Jensen could cry.

Before he and Hiyami part ways after brunch, he apologizes three times, thanks her three times, apologizes again, and hugs her once. She shoos him off with two reminders. First, he buys the first round of soda at The Hour Glass on Friday. Second, don’t let her emotional labor be in vain. 

Her words stick with him throughout the rest of the day. 

This could be something great.

If only Jensen would let it be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! thank you for being here! <3
> 
> i'm continuing to fight against health issues + depression. y'all are wonderful, i can't thank you enough for the support.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: denial about addiction

Jensen walks into Liner & Elsen Wine Merchants on Quimby off of 22nd. 

Two steps into the specialty store, the selection overwhelms him. He had a vague idea about buying a red wine for tonight, but that’s about as far as his knowledge of wine goes. It seems more appropriate to take over a bottle of nice--expensive?--wine instead of a six pack of beer. His mother is guaranteed to spontaneously appear and slap him upside the head if he shows up at Jared’s without anything. 

She’s already called twice and sent a mountain of text messages demanding to know what the heck he got into last night and does he need to fly home or should she fly out? He calmly called her while he not-calmly tore apart his closet for an outfit and assured her more than twice that a save and rescue was absolutely not necessary. 

Of course, their conversation could not end on a pleasant note. 

“Joshua never drank so much in medical school at your age,” she so helpfully chided. 

_ That you knew about _ , Jensen longed to grumble. But he couldn’t betray his brother like that. It’s not Josh’s fault he can’t control who he drunk dials. 

Before they hung up, his mother managed to wrestle a promise to call in a few days, likely to make sure he hadn’t further disgraced himself or become a Bridget Jones case. He regrets ever watching that movie with her. Secretly drooling over Colin Firth and Hugh Grant wrestling had not been worth the agony of forever being referred to as the family’s potential Bridget Jones. 

Jaded fragments of last night puncture his mind. Ahmet needed comfort and he wanted it from Jensen. And, of course, Jensen almost fucking fell for it. He wasn’t hesitant enough. They found their way to a secluded corner and pretended to dance--an excuse to be physically close. Ahmet bought a round of shots. 

The glint of Ahmet’s wedding ring underneath the club lights slapped Jensen across the face. 

Marriage. Weddings. A tall slightly obnoxious dimpled guy with floofy hair and unfairly tight jeans. 

Fuck wine. He should buy something stronger. 

“Lord help me,” Jensen mutters to himself and forces his feet to walk in the direction of red wines. 

He promised Hiyami he would pump the brakes on his alcohol intake and maintain a healthy distance from Ahmet. Unlike the shame and guilt masked as “advice” from his mother, Hiyami’s advice strikes more than a few chords of truth in Jensen. Maybe he’s become a bit too dependent on alcohol to escape uncomfortable situations. Maybe he has been noticing his tolerance creeping up over the past year. Maybe he’s battled more hangovers--complete with puking, crying, lack of memory from the night before, torn or stained clothes--than he cares to admit. 

Surrounded by hundreds of bottles sitting atop mahogany shelves, Jensen takes a deep breath.

No need to have a panic attack before dinner. He can have one after dinner, in the privacy of his car, like normal people.

A well-meaning clerk swings by and offers assistance. Jensen latches onto them and admits that all he knows about dinner is the existence of zucchini boats. He has no idea if they’ll be stuffed with beef, pork, chicken, cheese, or some kind of extravagant combination of all four. 

The clerk must be used to clueless people who have wandered in looking for something to present to their dates because they spring into action. 

Sauvignon Blanc. Pinot Grigio. Cabernet Sauvignon. Grenache. Chardonnay. 

Ten minutes later, Jensen is the proud owner of a headache and two bottles of wine: a 2014 Huaso de Sauzal Pais Red from Chile and Cakebread Cellars Chardonnay 2015. Like a professional, he chose both based on the shape of the bottles and design of the labels. 

In his car, he gives himself a hard look in the rear view mirror. 

His eyes look puffy, with only a tinge of red. It looks like he’s either been crying or drinking heavily, both of which are true. He called Hiyami and Tucker for advice on what to wear. Final verdict: a rose and white, vertical striped button up, fitted gray jeans, and his nice pair of white top siders he’s only worn once. 

“I hate this shirt,” he sighs and pokes at the bags underneath his eyes. “I should’ve shaved. I hate this shirt. I hate these shoes.” 

Some pep talk.

Extracting himself from the car, Jensen double checks the street signs to make sure his ass doesn’t get towed. With the wine in its fancy gift box that cost an extra ten dollars, Jensen walks up to Jared’s building. Not two seconds pass after he presses the button to Jared’s apartment that the buzzer goes off.

Jensen navigates a large, marbled hallway and picks the bank of elevators that go only to the third and fourth floor. There seem to be only four lofts per floor and the ceilings everywhere are massive. 

Last chance to overthink things and leave.

Except he doesn’t  _ want _ to leave. He wants dimpled smiles and firm, rough kisses and long, lean legs. 

It just feels like he doesn’t deserve any of that.

Reginald opens the door before Jensen can knock. “My dear boy, you look absolutely frightened.” He claps Jensen on the shoulder and yanks him inside. “We’re all a bit wary of my son’s culinary skills, but don’t you worry. I brought a bottle of Pepto with me and I am glad to share it.”

“Sorry some of us enjoy spices and flavors,” Jared calls out, unseen, from the kitchen. He speaks with a decidedly English accent that matches his father’s. “Don’t hover, Reg, you’ll smother him. Bring ‘im in here.”

“Where the magic happens,” Reginald sighs and shakes his head. He meets Jensen’s eyes. “I must say that I am delighted to see you again, Jensen. I knew I spotted the right chap for my boy. Do try not to hold his cooking against him.”

Jensen nervously laughs and all but shoves the wine into Reginald’s hands. “I brought wine,” he declares, his voice sharp and high-pitched, awkward as ever. 

Jared’s loft is immaculate. Exposed bulbs hang above an industrial style kitchen island. Exposed brick provides a warm backdrop. Simple, modern, artfully mismatched chairs offer places to sit where Jared has laid out an elegant charcuterie with sausage, ham, cheese, fig spread, and dried fruit. Every mile of stainless steel countertop shines. 

The chef wears a pair of comfortable jeans, a plum shirt, no shoes, and a pink apron with the words, “Mum’s Kitchen,” etched in black thread. 

“I wanted one that said, ‘I like my butt rubbed and my pork pulled,’” Jared says, showing off his apron with a curtsey. “They didn’t have my size.”

“Surprised you didn’t get one that says, ‘May I suggest the sausage,’” Jensen counters, the first clever thing he’s said all fucking day.

“Oh my god,” Jared gasps. “ _ Yes _ . Oh! Or, ‘I keep the best snacks under my apron.’” He pulls Jensen in for a quick, hot kiss, then gives a nudge to Jensen’s chin. “Wow, I’m glad you came.”

Reginald clears his throat. “Little early for that, I think. At least wait until I leave.” 

“Please,” Jared snorts. He goes back to stirring an enormous pot of pasta. “And you know, if it’s not too much trouble, maybe you could move your Jimmy and offer our guest a drink.” 

“He brought wine,” Reginald chirps, happily opening up the box. “Hang on, there’s a Huaso de Sauzal Pais here…”

Jensen anxiously looks over at Jared. “Is that… a bad thing?”

“Nope. Means he approves. He’s a wine snob.”

“Excellent choice, lad.” One more clap to the shoulder and Reginald hurries to open the bottle. “I do believe someone by the name of Jared is also a wine snob.”

With a roll of his eyes, Jared mutters, “Not as much as the old man. Hey, you’re not to pour yourself a drink without first offering to Jensen. Bad manners.”

“Rubbish, this was for the man of the hour.” Reginald hands Jensen a full glass of wine, then pours himself and Jared one. He motions to Jared. “This one’s spent all day cleaning, cooking, and talking about you. Seems like he’s fond of your company.”

An interesting blush appears over Jared’s cheeks. Jensen smiles and takes a sip of wine. “I’m kinda fond of his company. Even at six in the morning.”

Jared beams. “Pancakes are worth it.”

“Something like that,” Jensen murmurs, smiling behind his glass. He notices Reginald noticing them, amused and obviously pleased. 

Despite the ribbing, Jared and Reginald have an open, easy relationship. Both Reginald and Jared dressed casual, which makes Jensen feel overdressed and self-conscious… until Reginald admires his sense of style, which sparks a compliment from Jared about how his jeans make his ass look smashing.

Father and son put Jensen at ease in record time. 

Over the charcuterie board, Reginald tells the story of how Jared fell off his scooter at the age of fourteen. “Tottered about with this ghastly gash on his chin,” he details, using hand gestures to maximize comedic effect. “Looked like someone went at him with a cheese grater.”

“Fuckin’ awful scar,” Jared laughs, popping a slice of cheese into his mouth. “But it was bad ass, wasn’t it?”

“His mum thought his face would be pear shaped the rest of his life.” Reginald speaks with a softer tone, glancing into his wine glass. “Blamed me, of course. After that, never let him out of the house without bubble wrap taped to him.”

Jensen catches a small smile from Jared. He rubs Jared’s back and tugs on his apron strings. “Tried to be Mr. Bean, huh? Do you need help with anything?” 

“Hell yeah,” Jared quips. “An’ nah, I’m fine. Tell me--you ever lose your shit on a scooter?”

Reginald nods and nudges Jensen on the shoulder. “Were your parents as dodgy and irresponsible as we were with this one?” 

“Uh, no,” Jensen coughs. “I mean, maybe the extreme opposite? You tell my mom to back off and she’ll look at me like I’ve cut out her heart.”

“Any siblings to deflect on?” 

“Older brother,” Jared chimes in. “And younger sister, isn’t that right?”

“Oh darling,” Jensen answers, in his worst British accent, “that’s absolutely right.” 

Serving up pasta and zucchini boats, Jared accepts a peck to the cheek from Jensen. “Holy fuck,” he laughs and returns the peck with an actual kiss. “Fancy eef’s got it.” 

Jensen pulls away quick enough to have Reginald wave him off with a chuckle. “G’on! Ain’t mad as a barbed wire badger. Quite the opposite, really.” He nods towards Jared. “Don’t think I could be mad with this one either. Always had a spot of trouble disciplining ‘im.” 

Jared rolls his eyes. “You’m like a drone in a buzza, dad.” 

“That’s Devon speak,” Reginald murmurs to Jensen, pride clearly in his eyes. “Mean ‘you’re carryin’ on an’ on, old sod.’” 

“Have y’all always gotten along so well?” Jensen looks from father to son. “My dad usually wants to talk to me about going into accounting or business. Or real estate.” 

Jared hands Reginald and Jensen their plates, then leads them to a living room the size of Jensen’s apartment. Jensen imagines all of his stuff fitting into just the living room and  _ still _ having enough space to be considered sparsely decorated. Jared, however, doesn’t have that problem. Just like in the kitchen, exposed brick provides yet another backdrop, this time partnered with wood ceiling beams. 

A reclaimed wood table with seating for eight--ten in a squeeze--serves as the focal point. Above them hangs a simple wrought iron chandelier, which emits a warm, marmalade glow. 

Three pieces of art hang nearby--each one a watercolor of a different flower. 

“Mum painted those,” Jared says with a smile. “On the left is Lily of the Incas, middle’s Peony, and last but not least is Bluebonnet. Pretty, innit?” 

Jensen returns the smile. “Yeah, incredibly pretty.”

“Thanks. Sit, sit. Here, on my right. Dad’s on the left. And I’m in the middle. At the head of the table.”

“Like a little ‘eller,” Reginald quips. 

“You’re right barmy tonight,” Jared teases. The three of them sit and Jared raises his glass. “Right quick--a toast to mum, to Sunday dinner, and to Jensen, who we are all glad could join us.”

Reginald nods and clinks his glass against Jared and Jensen’s. “To the bee’s knees of company.”

Unsure of what exactly to say, Jensen clinks his glass, and thanks his hosts for the invitation. Fortunately, neither father nor son need any help in guiding their conversation. They’re happy enough talking about anything and everything as everyone digs in. The pasta and zucchini boats topped with beef and cheese are delicious enough to warrant the singing of taste buds and tongue. 

Throughout the rest of their meal, Jensen answers the rest of Reginald’s questions without hesitation. Why Portland, why The B-Side, why music, his thoughts on Def Leppard--one of the greatest British rock bands in the history of music, according to Reginald. 

The three of them “retire,” as both father and son call it, to the living room. Reginald takes an armchair, while Jensen and Jared don’t bother to leave much room between them on a plush loveseat. Over pecan pie and coffee, their conversation continues as easily as the rotation of a record. 

“Tell me more about your family?” Reginald poses the question after taking a healthy bite of pie. “I sadly, agree with your father. Accounting, or any kind of banking or investment, is the path to success.” 

“Dad,” Jared warns, shooting him a look. 

“Oh, just a few questions,” Reginald scoffs. “Won’t be no twenty questions or nothing. His mum an’ I wanted others. Seems we were destined to spoil just the one.”

“Sometimes I wanted to be the only one,” Jensen answers. “Especially when my mom starts comparing the three of us. But then, if I were the only one…” Jensen makes an exaggerated overwhelmed expression, his eyes wide in mock horror. 

Jensen details how he helped Josh study for so many tests, created countless flashcards for him all throughout medical school. Josh used to say that if Universities handed out medical degrees to helpful little brothers, the honor would be Jensen’s. He speaks with pride about his siblings--the cardiologist and the future chemist--he almost sounds like his mother. 

Maybe he should have had another glass of wine. He takes a deep breath and pauses for a second, biting his lower lip in a mix of anxiety and exhaustion.

Jared’s hand clasps over his shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “It’s gettin’ late,” Jared murmurs, his accent a blend of England and Texas. 

“Indeed it is,” Reginald declares. He rises from the armchair. “That’s my cue, innit?”

“Dad,” Jared groans, standing up. “Just say goodnight.” 

With a scoff, Reginald claps Jared on the chest and pulls him down to kiss his forehead. “There, proper embarrassment done with.” 

Jensen stands and expects Reginald to shake his hand, then thank him for the wine and the evening. 

Instead, Reginald pulls Jensen down and places a peck to his forehead. “And one for the rebel with a cause.” He pats Jensen’s shoulder. “Don’t let me son keep you  _ too _ late,” he adds with a wink. “Thank you, by the way, for breakin’ the mold an’ movin’ up here. Figure my son might find a different way to show his appreciation, but I’ll leave you to it.” 

Jared never blushes. This time, however, Jared’s face goes beet red. Jensen laughs and bumps his shoulder. 

“Can’t miss you if you don’t leave,” Jared hollers after Reginald. 

This part of their evening ends in the most British way. 

Reginald sees himself out and hollers back, “Ta!” 


	23. Chapter 23

If there’s any doubt Jared is half English, it disappears immediately after Reginald leaves. He turns to Jensen, smiles and pats Jensen’s shoulder, then announces, “Let me put the kettle on and we’ll have a cuppa.” 

While they wait for the kettle, Jared prepares a tea tray. 

Even though the emotional and physical stress of the weekend hits Jensen like a crate of records, he notices the elegant, steady motions of Jared’s hands. It’s quite obvious that Jared has made more than a few tea trays in his lifetime. 

Jared pours the water into a red teapot. “Right,” he says with another charming smile. “Shall we?” 

Instead of the living room, Jared leads Jensen out of his loft and into the hallway, then to a door tucked away in the corner. Jensen holds out for Narnia or Hogwarts. One of those two. 

“You lucky asshole,” Jensen laughs when they finish climbing a set of stairs. “You have a rooftop patio.”

Portland from five stories up greets them and provides the best kind of view: glittering lights, the faint scent of water, and a clear, indigo sky. Jared adds to the ambiance and lights lavender scented candles--the kind with wood wicks, so they crackle. The flames dance and sway as a crisp breeze floats near. Noise from the street only slightly reaches them up here. Jensen easily tunes it out the second Jared sits next to him on the comfortable loveseat. 

Reaching for the teapot, Jared asks the important questions. “Milk or lemon? How many sugars?” 

“Milk,” Jensen answers, keeping his voice a hair above a whisper. “Two sugars, please.”

“Good man,” Jared snickers. “I was afraid you’d take your tea just like your coffee, which is no way to drink tea.”

“Or coffee, according to you,” Jensen quips. He rides his remaining energy like a buoy drifting on a current. Eventually, he’ll crash, but the second Jared hands him his mug, the tension and exhaustion in his body miraculously unwind more than a fraction. 

Jensen takes a sip of tea, expecting it to be something like the stuff he microwaves whenever he has a cold. “Wow,” he murmurs and goes for another sip. “Holy fuck.”

Pleased with himself, Jared takes a long drink of his tea. “I’m chuffed you like it. I don’t make tea for just anyone.”

Guilt plops itself into Jensen’s tea. A bitter aftertaste coats the inside of his mouth. Little by little, Jensen has shared pieces of himself with Jared on every date. But he hasn’t been willing or able to talk about The Big Heavy Uncomfortable Stuff, such as his twisted relationship with Ahmet, his dependence on something to drink in order to make it through certain situations, or his tendency to throw himself riveting pity parties at the drop of a hat. 

Who wants to date someone with  _ that _ many issues? 

No one with their own loft, rooftop patio, and Mercedes--that much Jensen knows.

Jared lightly curls his arm around Jensen’s shoulders, then presses a sweet, six sugars and milk kiss to Jensen’s cheek. His voice pours over him as if it were a perfect mug of tea. 

“Tell me everything you know about Led Zeppelin,” Jared murmurs. He noses Jensen’s cheek. 

But if Jensen can talk about anything, it’s music.

He can hear blues guitar and psychedelic lyrics in the back of his mind as he leans into Jared’s solid, supportive frame. “Zeppelin is an album band,” he starts. “It was genius marketing and brilliant artistry. Fans had to buy the LPs like they were 45s, but it also allowed them the space to experiment and cram in as many allusions and references as possible without losing the listener. You wouldn’t be overwhelmed, but this method of releasing music meant your listener would have to listen to the album as a whole--inundated, immersed, totally hooked.” 

Jensen wonders how Jared sees him. 

Funny thing is, he isn’t exactly sure how he sees himself. 

“Zeppelin references  _ The Lord of the Rings _ and Tolkien in more than a few ways.” How is he still talking? Clam up. No one wants to hear this stuff. “But it’s not just Tolkien that Page works in. You’ve got William Morris, W.B. Yeats, H.P. Lovecraft, and Aleister Crowley. Plant was all about hippie stuff. Page brought the occult side.” 

He sets his mug down on the tray, then reaches up and scratches Jared’s chin as he continues to talk. “There was this one instrument called the theremin. He played it at Madison Square Garden. You can play this thing without even touching it. You can hear it in a lot of old school sci-fi movies, but this one dude who heard it at this specific concert was convinced it was a tool of the devil. Probably didn’t help he was high as fuck. He was 10/10 convinced that Jimmy Page had summoned demons and sold his soul to Satan.” 

Tilting his head up and Jared’s chin down, Jensen presses a kiss to Jared’s undeniably attractive mouth.

_ It’s been a long time, been a long time. Been a long lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time. _

Bonham on the drums courses through Jensen’s fingertips--thrilling, high speed, fierce, and frantically charged. He pulls Jared close, by the collar of his t-shirt, and pushes the kiss deeper. With a moan, he encourages the track of Jared’s hands, guiding him further south until they rest on the curve of his hips. 

Jared exhales a breathy, heated groan. The dark, rumbling sounds he makes while kissing send a shudder of unfiltered want through Jensen. This is tight jeans, unbuttoned shirts, crunching electric guitars, wailing, sex-charged vocals and rock god status. He squeezes Jensen’s ass--firm, possessive, and bone-shakingly rough.

The world dips. Jensen adjusts to the shape of Jared above him on the couch, completely indifferent to the sound of Portland around them. 

Who cares about the background noise when Jared cranks up the amp by a thousand when he bites down on the most tender part of Jensen’s neck. His teeth sink in with confidence and  _ pull _ on every delicate, aching nerve. Jensen’s entire body responds; his hips arch and his mouth opens to let out a noise like a heavy, forbidden guitar riff. 

Against him, Jared feels like the steady rush of teal waves lapping against the sand.

_ The way you move gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove. Gonna make you burn, gonna make you sting _ .

Led Zeppelin IV was the very first record Jensen bought from The B-Side. 

“Wait,” Jensen says, his voice caught in his throat. “Stop.” 

Like a goddamn gentleman, Jared immediately stops. The absence of his mouth on Jensen’s neck sets in cold and harsh against his skin. Fuck. What is he doing? 

Concern fills Jared’s eyes. His accent comes out a mix of Texan and English--symphonic soul. “You okay? What’s up?” 

Jensen places his hand against Jared’s chest. He doesn’t move to change their positions. He’s safe here, underneath Jared, underneath the East Coast sky.

This is it. This is the perfect time to announce: Dude, I’ve Got Baggage for Days. Run. Run while you still can. Then there will be no more dimpled smiles, hazel puppy eyes, sea tattoos, crates of records, dancing, groping, and just plain laughing while making penis-shaped pancakes.

Deep breath. Now or never. 

“There’s stuff I have to tell you,” Jensen says, mentally kicking himself for not finding better words. He might as well have said the tell-tale ‘we need to talk.’

Jared’s expression changes from concerned to curious to panicked. “Of course,” he rumbles and sits up, taking his warmth with him. “Yeah, sure.” He clears his throat and looks over at Jensen, eyes pained and mouth in a tense line. “What about?” 

Oh fuck. Jensen face palms. “Maybe it’s too serious. Maybe you don’t wanna talk about anything serious? Right? Shit, I’m sorry. I just thought this would be a good time to give you a picture of the whole package instead of the mint-condition, sealed album I present to the world.” Retreat, retreat. “We don’t have to talk. Forget I said anything.”

Jared blinks. 

Then he laughs and pushes his hair out of his face. “Jen, you’re gonna give me a heart attack here. I thought you were about to dump me.” 

“No!” Jensen blurts out and places his hands on Jared’s shoulders. Jared’s muscular, broad, well-defined shoulders. “Nonononononono--no.”

“No?” 

“Nope.” Jensen sighs and presses his forehead to Jared’s chest. “Fuck it, I’m just gonna say everything in one big word vomit mess. Then, if you decide that this record belongs in the bargain bin, I wouldn’t blame you.” 

No laugh this time. Jared nudges Jensen to make eye contact. He frames the sides of Jensen’s face with his hands. “Hey,” he murmurs, already breaking some kind of record for being patient and understanding. “You ain’t no bargain bin deal, Jen. No matter what happens--that’s never how I’m gonna think of you. So spill. It’s important and I wanna listen.”

Sainthood. Fucking sainthood. 

“I moved away from my family because I just couldn’t take it anymore. The constant comparison. Nothing I did was ever good enough or what they expected from me. I wanted to go to UTA for Musicology. I had everything planned--loans, scholarships, the works. Then, when it came time to co-sign for shit, my parents refused. They said either business school or law school or medical school… I couldn’t do it. So I got my Associate’s, saved up money, and ran away to my parents’ worst nightmare.” 

Moving out had been fun. If fun meant lots of crying, tantrums, and threats to be cut off. 

“My parents are… you know helicopter parents? My parents are Black Hawk helicopter parents. For the first two years here they visited every month. I got calls every day, sometimes twice a day. They hate my job at the record store. They hate my apartment. They hate my car. They hate the fact that I  _ like _ it here. It’s either Dallas or nothing, and to them, I chose nothing. Then? Can you imagine? What does their no-good, left out of the Christmas card son do? He declares his love for cock. Everything falls into place after that. ‘Oh,  _ that’s  _ why Jensen is so strange. He’s  _ gay _ .’” 

Jensen snorts. “I’m one of  _ those _ people. And you’d think that this would make them pull back, right? Can’t have the ladies in church or my Auntie June finding out. Nope. They went full-on PFLAG on me. They wanted to go to meetings in Dallas and Portland. My mom offered to march with me in the Dallas Pride Parade if I’d just move back home. She was fully prepared to sew the rainbow flag to her Chanel jacket and march next to ‘other boys like you.’” 

Holy fuck this is exhausting. But Jared sits and nods. He doesn’t run away screaming or beg for Jensen to stop whining. Sometimes he smiles at Jensen’s descriptions. 

“I dated on the sly when I lived with my parents,” Jensen continues, palm against his forehead. “Then, when I moved out here, the world was my oyster. I did nothing but hook up. It was fun. To a point. I liked my job, liked my freedom, liked the guys I slept with, liked the friends I was making. Then… then it went to shit because I fell in love.”

Jared nods. “Yeah?”

“Uh huh.” Jensen sits on the couch, hands to himself now. “Ahmet and I were good friends. He looked after me at The B-Side and taught me a fuck ton about music, then Portland, then commitment. It was fun. You know. Until it wasn’t.”

“Ah,” Jared says, “a coworker.”

“Still a coworker. Technically my manager. Amos promoted him last year to assistant manager and he pretty much runs the place.”

“So what happened?”

“...he dumped me,” Jensen grumbles. “Like had sex with me one night and the next day dumped me over the phone. Like a hookup.” He looks at Jared. “He was my first real relationship. Two weeks later, he texted our group of friends that he was getting married. Two months later, him and Austin tied the knot.” 

“Holy fuck, what a douchebag.” Jared sits up straight. “And you  _ still _ work with him? How? I’d be punching him on the daily.”

Shrugging, Jensen laughs. “That’s kind of the problem. We’re still friends. How fucked up is that? And I like my job too much. No one else in Portland is gonna pay me what I make at The B-Side. And Ahm’s usually in the back with Amos, so it’s not like we’re in close quarters. He doesn’t hang out with our group much either. But like… lately? Every time he does hang out with us, he drinks a shit ton. And I drink a shit ton.” 

Frustrated with himself, Jensen bitterly swipes at his eyes and swallows the lump in his throat. 

“I don’t wanna drink a shit ton anymore. It’s fuckin’ me up. An’ I know some of it has to do with Ahm. He told me him an’ Austin are havin’ problems.” He sniffles. “On Saturday night, we went out, drank a shit ton, and he told me how much he wishes Austin was more like…” He gestures to himself because it hurts too much to say it out loud. “I worked so hard to get over him. I thought we were good-- _ I  _ was good. And I found someone else who didn’t want a hookup. This dude.” Jensen glances up just to keep from sliding into a complete mess. “Is the only dude I will ever willingly wake up at six in the morning for just to see him draw penises out of pancake batter. The only dude I whose penis I wanna draw with pancake batter and see if I’m anatomically correct.” 

Jensen pauses. His heart beats with the fury of a Page riff and the boom of a Bonham solo. 

Deep beats. Heavy sounds. Conjurations of the strange and vulgar. 

Jared places a hand over Jensen’s knee. Their eyes meet. Quiet and careful, he speaks. “Sounds like your ex thinks you’re available whenever it’s convenient for him. Like he’s got permission to pick you up, enjoy your company, then leave once married life calls.”

“Yeah,” Jensen hiccups. 

“It sucks being the backup plan, Jen.”

“I don’t wanna be the backup plan. For anyone.”

“Me neither,” Jared replies, his tone and expression a touch more serious. “When you kiss me--who are you thinking of?” 

He should crack a joke here. Try and lighten the mood. Right? No. Fuck the joke. “You,” Jensen answers, his voice more confident in that one word than all his words in the past two days. “Even when I’m not kissing you, I’m thinking about you. When I’m with my friends, I’m thinking about asking you to hang out or texting you to see what you’re up to. Even when Ahm swung by on Friday night, I spent most of my time at the bar trying to decide if I should use the eggplant emoji or the kissy face one.”

Thank fuck--Jared offers up a small smile. “Always the eggplant emoji, Jen.”

“Yeah, okay,” he blurts out, followed by a shaky laugh. “Hiyami kicked my ass this morning about my drinking habits and taking a break from hanging out with Ahmet.”

“I like her,” Jared quips. 

“She’s saved my sorry ass more than once.” Jensen closes his eyes for a brief second, then takes the time to notice the way Jared’s hair shines, silky and wavy, in the patio lights. “You have my permission to tell me I’ve got enough baggage for a Grand Tour of Europe and goodbye.” 

Jared sits back in the couch, hands behind his neck. He glances up, deep in thought, then bumps his knee against Jensen’s. “I suck at taking my meds for depression and anxiety. Sometimes I start projects and never finish them. Sometimes I think there’s no problem with flying to England with nothing more than a backpack and an extra pair of shoes when in reality, that’s the worst thing anyone could do. I’m impulsive. And loud. And to be frank, I’m thirty years old and a lot of my humor is based on penis jokes.”

The fear gripping Jensen’s chest alternates between white knuckling and detaching. 

“I didn’t become an investment banker and you didn’t become a doctor. So what? You told me you know you’ve got an issue with alcohol, I appreciate the honesty and if you need help or resources, I gotcha. You’ve got an ex that doesn’t seem to respect boundaries, yeah, I’ve had a few of those in the past.” Jared leans in, takes Jensen’s hand, and presses a kiss to his palm. “I’ll get my baggage and we’ll go on that Grand Tour together.” 

An hour later, Jared walks Jensen to his car. Jensen walks with his clothes a little more rumpled, his hair a little more messy, and his baggage not as fucking heavy. 

They’re exclusive--locked down and in for whatever’s next.

As they lean against Jensen’s car, holding hands, Jared pulls up a song on his phone. 

“This is my favorite British band.”

“Spice Girls?”

“That’s my second favorite, thank you,” Jared snips and huffs. He squeezes Jensen’s hand. “No, jerk, they’re called Scouting for Girls. Listen. This is the best song. Reminds me of you.”

Another hour later, Jensen crawls into bed. His apartment feels less like a cavernous void as he shuts his eyes and replays the best song in his head. 

_ She’s so lovely, she’s so lovely, she’s so lovely.  _

He replays the feeling of Jared’s lips pressed against his ear, purring, “A stunner, I want her. She says she’s got a thing or two to teach me. I think that you are lovely. I think that you are lovely. I think that you are beautiful.” 

Jensen has new music to listen to in the morning.


	24. Chapter 24

As an apology and a thank you, Jensen brings his pristine, first pressing copy of “Rumors” by Fleetwood Mac to work a few days later and hands it over to Mike.

Mike holds the album in his hands and examines the album cover with the careful scrutiny Jensen has trained him in. There isn’t a single scratch, tear, or fold on the album sleeve, and the record itself is cleaner than Jensen’s apartment has ever been. 

“Gold Dust Woman is my favorite,” Mike says, busting out into a smile. “This is awesome, but…” He slowly, carefully hands the album back to Jensen. “Totally not necessary. I was happy to help out.”

Jensen narrows his eyes. “You were?”

With a short laugh, Mike shakes his head. “Yeah, man. Thought we were friends. Friends help friends, even when they’re shitfaced and about to make incredibly terrible decisions. Maybe  _ especially _ when they’re shitfaced and about to make incredibly terrible decisions.”

“Thank you,” Jensen sighs and leans over the buy counter, his forehead almost touching the surface. He grumbles, “My middle name should be ‘makes incredibly terrible decisions.’” 

“That would never fit on a driver’s license.”

“See what I mean? I make incredibly terrible decisions all the time.”

“You and everyone else.” Mike pokes Jensen in the bicep. “I would like to add that maybe you can buy me lunch, if you’re gonna feel guilty about it.”

Jensen gasps. He runs his hand over the front of the album. “You turned down Stevie for lunch?”

“I think lunch is a little more attainable than Stevie, goddess that she is.” 

“Don’t listen to him,” Jensen mutters to the album. “I’ll never trade you for a burrito.”

“If you’re gonna talk to albums, you might as well talk to this copy of Insane Clown Posse--there’s some dudes with  _ issues _ .” 

A few minutes later, Rob and Bob grace The B-Side with their presence. Jensen tucks Stevie away in his backpack and resumes pricing albums to go out. Since it’s a rather slow Thursday, only Mike and Jensen are out on the floor. Amos sits in the back, most likely hunkered down with the inventory report, the newest copy of  _ Rolling Stone _ , and a cup of something from Extracto. When Jensen opened the store this morning, Amos was already in the back office, brewing one pot of sludge and one pot of heaven.

The phone rings just as Bob rolls up to the counter. Jensen and Mike transform into stealth ninjas to grab for the phone. 

Triumphant, Jensen answers, happy to talk to anyone but Bob or Rob. 

“So I’m looking for my boyfriend,” Jared declares, his voice crystal clear on the line. “I was hoping to bring him lunch and I can’t remember if he wants a five or ten inch sandwich.” 

Jensen smiles wider than if Stevie herself had walked into the store. “Don’t know about your boyfriend, but he’s a lucky man if he gets a ten incher.” 

“Gets or has?” 

“Both.”

Jared snickers into the phone. “I’ll keep that in mind. Glad you answered.”

“It’s kind of my job.”

“Damn, that’s right. I keep forgetting. So what time is your lunch break at this so-called job?”

“Uh…” Jensen glances at the handwritten schedule on the whiteboard next to his pricing computer. “In an hour, for an hour.” 

“Perfect, that works out. I have to talk to Amos about pricing and setting up a day or two of installation for the rest of the store and the backroom.”

Jensen thanks the universe for the invention of cordless phones. He kneels and pretends to search for a new pricing gun, phone cradled against his shoulder. “You gonna talk to him before or after you bring your boyfriend ten inches of meat?” 

“After,” Jared laughs. “I’ll see you in an hour, then?”

In an hour, for an hour. Disappointment, ache, and excitement roll in his stomach. Their schedules have clashed since dinner on Sunday, leaving only pockets of time here and there to catch a quick bite to eat or makeout in a frenzy. 

“Yup,” Jensen confirms, standing up again. He refrains--just barely--from rolling his eyes at Bob. “Gotta go--Kid Rock waits for no one. I’ll remind Amos that you’re swinging by.” 

The rest of the afternoon rolls along with a few changes to the record player set up at the register. Jensen pops in AC/DC, then Mike demands the Eagles, and when Tiffany arrives for her closing shift, she slides in Nirvana. Jensen misses the Beatles hour when he goes on break, but Jared makes up for it by teaching him some British slang. They also manage to make out in the alleyway between Carlita’s and The B-Side.

By five, Jensen is ready to leave and say hello to his couch and a John Carpenter marathon on Netflix. Jared and Amos finish up their meeting just as Jensen finishes running a few high-price records on the floor. Amos claps Jared on the back, shakes his hand, and thanks him. 

“No trouble at all,” Jared replies, his smile wide and infectious. “I’ll see you Saturday night once the store closes.” 

Amos nods and rubs his chin. “I think I got Jensen closing that night.”

“Just like every Saturday night,” Jensen chimes in. He grabs his backpack from the counter. “I’m not babysitting the two of y’all after hours.”

Jared shrugs and shakes his head. “Your loss, it’s gonna be so much fun. You’re gonna miss all the joy of switching to energy-efficient commercial lighting.”

“I’ve made my peace with that.” 

Amos crosses his arms over his chest and levels a look at Jensen. “Kid, you know I can’t stay awake past ten. I’ll stay an hour and the two of you can finish up.”

Alone in the store with Jared? Without a chaperone? He might have to feign a sudden onset of the vapors.  Jensen shoves down the thrill that snakes up his spine. He accepts the offer to work a few extra hours and stay with Jared to finish the lights. What could possibly go wrong?

He walks out of The B-Side with Jared. 

“I’m a classy dame,” Jensen quips, leaning against his car. “A delicate flower, if you will.”

A flash of dimples causes an addictive squeeze in his chest. Jared places one hand on Jensen’s car and the other on Jensen’s hip. “Baby, I know. But I’m still gonna try and get that nickel you got between your knees.”

Unable to keep his stoic composure, Jensen laughs, uncaring if he’s too loud. He yanks Jared in for a quick kiss, similar to the few they shared during lunch. His eyes close. His heartbeat accelerates. Jared tastes like ginger-infused simple syrup--spicy, sweet, and sharp. 

If Jensen had to describe this moment in a text message, it’d be all eggplant emojis and heart eyes. 

Seconds after they part for air, Jared sighs and hides his face in the crook of Jensen’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he murmurs and wraps his arms around Jensen. “Let’s drive off into the sunset and go to the beach. We’ll find some clams. I’ll make paella. We can kayak. I’ll build you a sand castle. We can visit a lighthouse. We can camp out under the stars.” He presses a kiss to Jensen’s cheek. “Then I’ll steal your virginity. It’ll be romantic, I promise.”

Jensen laughs so hard, his eyes water. 

As Jared walks away, towards his truck to get to his evening appointments, Jensen calls out, “I’d settle for some tacos and a blanket on the floor!” 

So much for being a classy dame.


	25. Chapter 25

At seven in the morning on Saturday, Jensen falls out of bed trying to answer his cell phone. 

From the cold, unforgiving floor of his bedroom, he finds his phone on the nightstand and answers without first looking at the screen.

“What the hell?” he scowls into the offending rectangle of hatred. 

Amos snaps back, “Rise and shine. Guess what.”

Jensen groans and crawls back into bed. “The hipsters have left Portland?”

“No one’s  _ that  _ lucky, kid.” Amos sounds irritated, but also slightly amused. “Looks like Robin and Clara have their hands full at the Dublin. Pipes burst overnight.” 

“So why are you calling me?” Maybe some people enjoy being up at the crack of dawn and leading productive, healthy, and fulfilling lives. Jensen would much rather be considered an outcast, a degenerate, and a scrooge for an extra hour of sleep. 

Sighing, Amos replies, “Because guess who’s store is right next to theirs?” 

“Shit. How bad is it?” 

“Not bad. Three inches or so. Nothing’s damaged except two bins of clearance records.” Jensen can hear Amos wading through B-Side Lake. “It’ll take a while for the clean up crew to get around to us, seeing as the Dublin is sitting pretty underwater. I’m closing the store for today. Unless you think everyone would like to wear rainboots and work in water.”

Quickly, Jensen insists that he doesn’t even own a pair of rainboots and that even if he did, working in water would not be productive for anyone. He agrees to call Mike while Amos gets on the horn with Ahmet and Tiffany. Mike answers on the first ring. He was on mile three of his morning jog, which actually meant that he had conveniently just woken up to go to the bathroom when the phone rang. 

Mike decides he’ll take a trek out to Seattle. “So what are you gonna do with your Saturday?” 

“Go the fuck back to sleep for a few hours,” Jensen muses, “then maybe I’ll send out a few eggplant emojis.”

“You have weird hobbies.”

“Don’t hobby shame me.”

“Was Amos okay?”

“Yeah,” Jensen murmurs. “He was fine. Personally, I think he’s excited to help the Dublin and ignore everyone else today.” 

“That sounds right. Well, try and stay out of trouble.”

“Stevie will look after me.”

“You’re weird, Ackles.”

“Crazy knows crazy. Take an umbrella.” 

Fifteen minutes later, Jensen extracts himself from bed and meanders through his apartment. He tosses his phone back and forth in his hands. When was the last time he played guitar? Would it be too early to call Jared? Can he manage this relationship without fucking shit up? Did YouTube lie to him or can he really make mozzarella sticks on his waffle maker? 

It’s been five days since his last drink. He sits down in the living room and stares at his guitar. Over the past few years, he’s gotten better at listening to music than playing it. It’s also been easier to drink than to confront emotions. 

What does the world have against being numb? Blackouts were rare. Okay, not  _ that _ rare, but they weren’t every day. The majority of the time, he drank just enough to reach a level of hazy relaxation with a slight, soothing buzz. It was like swimming without the effort. Floating without the worry.

“Hello? Hellooooo? Jensen?” 

Jensen flinches at the sound of Jared’s voice coming through his phone. “Holy shit, hi, sorry, I didn’t realize I pressed call…”

Jared laughs, so fucking welcoming and familiar, it feels like warm maple syrup drizzled over butter and waffles. “It’s okay, I’m glad you did. How long were you debating to call?”

“Uh…” Jensen covers his eyes and sighs. Holy shit does he have it  _ bad _ . “Not long. Amos has to close up today.”

“Yup, he called.”

“What? I was supposed to call you.”

“He was worried you’d fall back asleep,” Jared snickers. “Did you?” 

“I did not, thank you very much.” Jensen places Jared on speakerphone. He reaches for his guitar, takes it out of its stand, and holds it in his arms. It feels lighter than he thought it would or remembers it. 

“Well, since you’ve got the day off, you wanna join me for a little somethin’ special?” 

Clutching his guitar, Jensen answers without hesitation. “Yes. Let’s do it.”

One more easygoing laugh and Jared shares precious few details. He ends with one stipulation. Jensen sets his guitar back on its stand, then spends the next half hour digging through his closet. Is he searching for a cute outfit? That one pair of jeans Hiyami calls his Look Back Jeans? The pair with rips and tears in all the right places, and can make even the most stone cold heterosexual men take a second look at his ass?

Not so much.

Two hours later, Jensen arrives at the First Unitarian Church wearing an ordinary pair of jeans, sneakers, and the only Christmas sweater he owns.

He walks up to a table of older folks manning the sign-in table. Every volunteer wears their own Christmas sweater--from tasteful to ugly to eye-stingingly hideous. 

A woman with the name tag Gertie waves at him in welcome. “Well howdy, partner! Merry Christmas!”

Jensen looks around, then back at Gertie, who is apparently his new best friend. Quietly, he informs her of the undeniable facts. “It’s… it’s July.”

With a laugh, Gertie hands Jensen a clipboard and a pen. “You know, some folks have mentioned that.” 

Signing his name and arrival time, Jensen understands her response as a polite way of saying, “No shit.” He hands the clipboard back and immediately looks around for someone tall, loud, and handsome.

His eyes soon land on Jared, who happens to be wearing lime green overalls and a red t-shirt, a string of blinking Christmas lights draped over him, and a candy cane striped sweater tied around his waist. It’s like Jared traveled through time, back to the 1990’s, and fell into the Christmas bin at a thrift store.

“Don’t just stare,” Jared says, the biggest, cheesiest grin on his precious face. “C’mere and kiss me like you missed me.”

Stay cool. Stay edgy. Stay reserved and mysterious and aloof. Don’t smile. Don’t laugh. Don’t fall ass over kettle. Don’t slobber. Oh, hell. It’s too fucking late. Jensen yanks Jared down by the suspenders of his overalls and plants the biggest, cheesiest kiss on his precious lips.  

Jared sighs happily and tries to eek out a second kiss. 

“No, no, no,” Jensen mutters, hiding a smirk. He places some distance between them. “Explain… this.” He motions towards the numerous tables around them. Some tables have been labeled “Cookie Cutters,” or “Lights,” but most remain a mess of assorted Christmas items. Santa Claus himself, albeit in plastic form, stares at Jensen from two tables over. 

Eagerly, Jared takes Jensen’s hand and leads him through the maze of tables, introducing him left and right to volunteers. “This is the fifth annual Christmas in July sale.” He picks up a Frosty the Snowman lawn ornament that looks like it belongs in a slasher film.

“If you're expecting ransom for Frosty, you're shit out of luck.” Jensen folds his arms over his chest. 

“He's just misunderstood.” On cue, Jared turns up the charm and flips into his British accent. “I volunteer here every year to raise money for the pride clubs at a few high schools in the area.”

Jensen shakes his head and takes a step back. He exaggerates his movements, but doesn't mask the tiny twinge of insecurity in his words. “Dude, you're waaaaay too good for me. Is there anything pure and perfect you don't do?”

Jared pouts and sneaks a peck to Jensen's cheek. He smells like cinnamon and apple pie. “I'm not perfect. I kinda don't always know how to say no, so… I try to do it all.” He goes in for a second peck and keeps his voice low. “I will accept compliments at how perfect I am where it counts.” 

Without a second thought, Jensen places his right hand on Jared's chest. Volunteers sort through boxes and rearrange tables. The world continues on around them--in noisy, chaotic, jingle bell motion. And still, the second their eyes lock the world becomes a background, a mere stage. All his movements reflect back in Jared’s. 

It’s the most intense thing. 

And also the most natural thing.

“You’re fucking wonderful,” Jensen murmurs. He nudges Jared’s chin. 

“I fuck wonderful, too,” Jared quips and kisses the palm of Jensen’s hand. 

“I wouldn’t know.” 

“Baby, you  _ will _ . Just help us out here for a few hours and you can sit on my lap.” 

“I’d rather sit on your face,” Jensen laughs, then pulls away from Jared’s magnetic force. He surveys the nearest table. “So we’re sorting? Then what?” 

Jared bounces into action. He shows Jensen how to piece together a few plastic, tabletop Christmas trees. They spend half an hour setting up more tables, vendor tents, and seating around an outdoor stage. The face painter arrives and Jared asks for a poinsettia on each cheek. Jensen goes for snowflakes because why the fuck not. Artists and artisans start to set up their spaces. Gertie and Jensen toss tinsel onto anything that will keep still. Jared works with the hoard of volunteers to get registers set up. 

Before everyone knows it, the Christmas in July charity sale starts without a hitch. One vendor makes pride color and PFLAG ornaments. Another vendor sells his & his, hers & hers, theirs & theirs hand towels. An exceptionally talented husband and husband team encourage folks to try their handmade, organic, preservative-free soaps and lotions. 

Jensen picks up a few soaps, ornaments, and scarves for Hiyami, Tucker, and Mike. He buys a little something for Jared, hurriedly paying for it and shoving it in a bag before Jared can see. 

The afternoon picks up as Jensen learns how to work one of the portable registers. He blesses people who pay in cash, practically kisses them if they pay in exact change, and condemns those who pay in fifties and hundreds to a lifetime of stepping on Legos in the dark. 

Between the registers, helping volunteers move tables, answering questions, lending a hand at the snack station, the start of the holiday concert catches him by surprise. 

Someone tall, cheesy, and handsome taps Jensen on the shoulder and extends a hand. 

“Care to dance?” Jared looks every bit as sweaty, tired, and messy as Jensen does--except his eyes remain entrancingly bright and energetic. 

To be honest, Jared could ask Jensen to slow dance off a cliff and descend into the ocean to live the rest of their lives under the sea as mer-boyfriends and Jensen would instantly agree. Jared Padalecki invites you to dance--with the poinsettias on his cheeks melting, his dimples on full display, his hair tousled--and you motherfucking accept the invitation.

Jensen understands that now. He would like to roundhouse kick himself for being so hesitant in the past. 

He takes Jared’s hand and they stop at the snack station first, where Jensen buys them each iced coffee, two slices of pizza, and one giant cloud of cotton candy. They devour their makeshift meal in no time, standing in the concert area, bumping shoulders and sharing sugar. 

“I bet these guys could do a great mashup of ‘Come As You Are’ and ‘Black,’” Jared quips, finishing his iced coffee, totally buzzed on caffeine, pizza, and sugar. 

They’re probably more sweat than human at this point. The weather has been mild up until today; the sun feels the need to shine down on Portland in a volcanic way. Jared’s tattoos of the sea stand out as seductive invitations to go skinny dipping. 

“That would be a horrible mashup,” Jensen echoes his past self, which is still his present self. It would be a terrible mashup.

“Twenty bucks it’d be kick ass.” 

“Like you’re gonna go up there and ask them to do it here and now.” 

Today’s musical contributions come from the church’s choir and a few local artists singing a combination of old and new Christmas songs. 

Jared takes that into account, laughs, and answers, “Well, maybe after this song.” He raises his hand and the band on stage--who probably do Nirvana and Pearl Jam covers on the weekends--jumps into a completely different song on cue. 

“Guys and gals, and our nonbinary pals,” the lead singer announces to their audience of about one hundred people gathered on the church lawn. “This next song goes out to Jensen Ackles by way of Jared Padalecki, who thought this might be the perfect way to embarrass him. One, two, one, two, three.” 

It might not be a mashup of Nirvana and Pearl Jam, but it is a true-to-spirit take on Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song.” 

Jensen feels his face go redder than the poinsettias on Jared’s face. 

“Are you not entertained?” Jared cackles and tugs him close, by the waist. “Thank you for helping out.”

Say something witty. Something with a smartass zing. Something dashing and charming. 

“Any time,” Jensen responds in a murmur. Crap. Not even close. He avoids eye contact for a few seconds, trying to think of something worthy to say for this moment. For the entire series of moments Jared has shared with him.

Instead, he decides to rest his head on Jared’s chest and close his eyes. Jared squeezes Jensen’s hand and rubs circles into Jensen’s back as they sway on their patch of fresh-cut grass. Other couples join in. The scent of sno-cone syrup, soft pretzels, and cotton candy wander over from the snack station. Clouds overhead provide a brief respite from the heat. It might rain later. 

The band plays on, steady and melodic. “And so I’m offering this simple phrase, to kids from one to ninety-two. Although it’s been said, many times, many ways…” 

Jared presses a kiss to Jensen’s forehead. 

“My mum loved Christmas,” he shares in a rumble. His voice is the strongest, richest coffee in Portland. He squeezes Jensen close. “And I know she would have loved you.”

It might be the middle of July, but that doesn’t mean there can’t be a Christmas miracle on the lawn of the First Unitarian Church. Jensen’s heart must grow at least three sizes. He doesn’t pull away. Anxiety, doubt, or hesitation--none of that shit appears. 

Maybe Jensen isn’t perfect. 

But he does know what to say next.

He finishes the song with the band as it winds down. This time, he meets Jared’s eyes and offers up a grateful smile.  “Merry Christmas,” he sings softly, “to you.” 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bottom!Jensen in this chapter.

The Christmas sale ends promptly at seven. 

Gertie and a handful of volunteers suggest going out for fried chicken and beer. Jensen and Jared decline together, as politely as possible. They’re hot. They’re sweaty. They need to clean up. 

“We could go to your place,” Jared says, his tone sharp and playful. He bumps their shoulders together as they walk towards Jensen’s car. He switches Texas on, lays his drawl out without reserve. “Except, I think we might wanna get dirtier before we get cleaner.” 

Jensen matches the drawl with a smirk and bump to Jared’s shoulder. “Why sir, I do recall telling you before that I’m a classy dame. A delicate flower, if you will. If you intend to woo me, I must be asked properly.” 

When they reach Jensen’s car, Jared takes full advantage of Jensen leaning against the passenger side door. He places a hand on the car and leans in, smoke and heat in his voice. “I do apologize, darlin’. What I been meaning to ask is if you’d do me the honor of joinin’ me for blow jobs and anal sex. Maybe some fried chicken after.” 

All that’s left to do is swoon and start the car. 

What happens next should, in theory, be a beautiful scene of two consenting adults participating in the sacred art of making love. There should be rose petals and vanilla candles and classical music in the background. Hell, there should be satin sheets, chilled champagne, chocolate-covered strawberries, and Richard Gere somewhere in the room to provide suggestions on how to do this properly. Richard Motherfucking Gere could also pick up a copy of The Kama Sutra and read from it for good measure. There should be a grand build up with all kinds of poetic phrases and sensual descriptions. 

And the promise of a happily ever after or a love everlasting or some garbage like that.

Jensen does own a candle. It’s somewhere in his apartment. He saw it a year or two ago? Probably? 

If Richard Gere were to walk into Jensen’s room at this moment, he’d most likely question the mess of clothes and bed sheets, and also state that while he has nothing against two men fucking, he did not agree to narrate two men fucking. 

There are moments in bed when Jensen likes to take his time. 

Now is not one of those times. 

“Holy shit,” Jared laughs into Jensen’s shoulder, the two of them engaged in horizontal, naked chaos on Jensen’s bed. “You’re naked.”

“I’ve been naked underneath my clothes every time you’ve seen me,” Jensen quips. He pulls Jared down for another few quick, sloppy kisses. “I’m gonna guess you like what you see?” 

Jared props himself up and takes a better look. Jensen keeps the lights in his room purposefully dim, a mixture of insecurity and setting the mood. Maybe Jared catches onto that, because he licks his fingers and drags them down the line of Jensen’s throat all the way to the tip of his cock. 

“Like ain’t the word,” Jared rumbles. Hazel eyes look up with nothing but honesty. “Can I just say that I’ve been looking forward to this for a helluva long time? And,” he presses a kiss to Jensen’s chest, “if you taste even half as good as you look, I’m goin’ back for seconds.” 

No silk sheets. No rose petals. Not a single Barry White song. 

Just Jared eagerly, tantalizingly kissing and biting his way down Jensen’s body. He uses his tongue in the best-worst ways, going from quick to slow to quick again as he sucks the tip of Jensen’s cock into his pretty pink mouth. 

“Fuck!” Jensen’s right leg bucks up. 

“That’s the point, yeah,” Jared snickers after he pops off. He speaks to Jensen’s cock like he’s talking into a microphone. “I’ll be back for you in a minute.”

“Don’t,” Jensen laughs. He grabs a pillow and covers his face. “Don’t talk to my junk!” 

“It ain’t junk. It’s beautiful.” Jared gives it a hearty squeeze. “And my new best friend. Well, aside from my next stop. Flip over.”

“You’re so fucking romantic, huh?”

“I can be, when the occasion calls for it. Right now, the occasion calls for you to be face down, ass up.”

“Crude.”

“Enthusiastic.”

“Bossy.”

“Confident.” 

There is no shortage of talent in Jared’s tongue. Once Jensen flips onto his stomach, he spreads Jensen’s legs open, happily sighs, and gets to work. 

No moonlight. No opera. No walks on the beach.

Just the rough lap of tongue against sensitive muscle. He works his tongue in circles, opens his mouth wide, and eats Jensen out like there’s an expiration date. At the same time, Jared gropes Jensen, squeezes his ass and thighs, and digs his fingers in. This isn’t amateur hour. Jared slips his tongue into Jensen and moans--long and loud. 

He’s a goddamn professional.

“I’m gonna die,” Jensen whines, clutching his pillow, eyes watering. “Jay, I’m gonna lose my shit.”

Jared snorts and pulls back for a second. “Please don’t do either of those.”

Before Jensen can think of something, anything, to say in response, Jared starts back up. He avoids Jensen’s cock in an act of barbaric cruelty, but he does add more spit, more pressure, and more depth. He holds Jensen open for a moment, satisfied with the gape, which makes him feel both exposed and also somehow proud. 

Emotions are strange. 

So is sex. 

“Quit playing around back there,” Jensen grits out. “This isn’t a free meal.” 

“Now who’s bossy?” 

“Well are you gonna fuck me or do I need to flip your ass over and ride you?” 

“...do you have a ten gallon hat?” 

“No, dipshit,” Jensen blurts out with a laugh. “But I do have condoms.”

Jared kneels up and smacks Jensen’s ass. “Good boy. Tell me where.”

Jensen chooses to forever forget about the squeak he gave having Jared’s handprint slapped on him. “Nightstand. Use a ribbed one.” 

“Oh,” Jared gasps. “You have a selection.” 

“Quit talking.”

“Red. Gold. Ooh, strawberry. Nothing that glows in the dark? Fine. We’ll go with this sucker--Ribbed XL Gold. For when you wanna give the very best.” 

The nightstand drawer shuts and the room gives a collective sigh. Finally.  _ Finally _ . 

Jensen takes the opportunity to deliver on his promise. He flips Jared on his back, straddles his thighs, and grabs the condom from his hand. Looking down, Jensen relishes his physical prowess. He tears the wrapper open and forgoes the handful of sarcastic jokes he could make in favor of… 

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Jared’s brow furrows. “Oh, what?” 

No jacuzzi. No epic poems. No bodices ripped open. 

Just Jensen’s mouth watering at the sight of Jared’s thick, hard, generously proportioned cock. 

“This is the wrong condom,” Jensen announces. He reaches over to his nightstand and fishes around. 

“In a good way?” Jared’s voice takes on a brief tone of vulnerability. 

All the way in the back of the drawer, Jensen finds the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He doesn’t bother shutting the drawer. He triumphantly holds up the new condom. “Jay, it’s so good, you have no fucking idea.” 

There are condoms and then there are  _ condoms _ . Jared deserves the latter. 

In a display of equal parts determination and arousal, Jensen slips the condom onto Jared. He hardly waits for Jared’s reaction to the condom--they can talk about that later. They’re still sweaty and hot and the headboard needs to serve its purpose. 

With his right hand, Jensen holds Jared’s cock steady. With his left hand, he steadies himself on the headboard. 

He takes a deep breath, lines them up, and angles his hips down. 

Their eyes meet the second Jared’s cock pushes in. Electricity and steam builds between them. The muscles in Jensen’s thighs and ass clench. He works to relax and leans into the momentary pain. Jared’s eyes roll back in a euphoric flutter and he clings to Jensen’s hips like his life depends on it. 

Full. 

Full and hot.

Full, hot, raw, salty, spicy, tangy, tart. All of it all at once in a deluge that teases the edge of something dark. 

In one long slide, Jensen sinks down. He curses and moans until he leans down and catches Jared’s mouth with his own. Their fingers intertwine. 

Jensen bumps their foreheads together. 

Jared arches his hips up, famished, starving, thirsting, wanting. “Fuck, fuck, fuck… tight, love. Tight.” 

After one deep breath, Jensen leans back, adjusts the angle of his hips, and shows Jared how he takes the last few inches of his cock. 

“Move,” Jared pants, his hands on Jensen’s thighs. “Holy fuck. Please. Please, move.” 

Sweat rolls down Jensen’s forehead, back, and chest. He closes his eyes and tests out the first angle. Jared’s cock drags against his prostate as Jensen lifts up, then hits square against it when he works himself down. After a few tentative tries, Jensen finds the perfect depth and rhythm. 

A few muscles scream, already sore from the work. But the majority of his body sings at the pleasure and pain. Satisfied. Sated. Weighted. Whole. 

He picks up the pace, matching Jared’s upward thrusts. Their hips meet. The headboard slams against the wall in a series of repetitive, brutal sounds. The mattress bends to the weight of them. The world becomes a pistol of pressure. Tension. Spark. 

“Coming,” Jared shouts, his mouth forming an O. “I’m gonna…” 

Jensen leverages his body weight against Jared. He lifts his hips up, grabs Jared by the shoulders, bears down, and fucks him feverish and wild. His own cock bounces and slaps against his stomach, heavy and flushed. Every time Jared’s cock pounds against his prostate, his cock responds--twitching, swelling, leaking. 

Jared abandons their rhythm and throws his head back. “Jensen!” He seizes. His hips stutter. He comes shouting loud and leaves halfmoon bruises from his fingertips on Jensen’s hips. 

No Richard Gere. No Kama Sutra. No complicated positions.

Just Jensen coming a minute later, Jared’s right hand stroking him through it. Ropes of come paint across Jared’s middle, then his chest, and even a few drops on his chin. Jensen shakes all over. He’s screaming something. A lot of somethings. Jared’s name. Praises to god. The Texas State Anthem. 

He contracts around Jared. Pulls him in as deep as he can and bears down. 

The second orgasm hits him out of fucking nowhere. Jared encourages him, shouting praise, sitting up and kissing him filthy. 

“Get it, love, get it,” Jared commands. He tugs on a piece of Jensen’s hair. “Come again, darlin’. Holy shit, fuck yes, come for me.” 

Jensen obliges. 

His orgasm concentrates itself inside him and expands. His cock responds with a few twitches and spurts, but most of the sensation echoes from somewhere buried deep. 

It wouldn’t surprise Jensen if he spends the next two days doing nothing but fucking a Jared-shaped hole into any flat surface in his apartment. When they finish that, they can head over to Jared’s place and start all over. 

Gravity and exhaustion get the best of him before he can begin plotting how to do this and nothing but this for the next forty-eight hours. He slumps forward and slurs a kind of warning. Fortunately, Jared understands and eases him down to rest on top of him. He doesn’t complain about the mess between them, nor does he make a fuss that he hasn’t slipped out yet. 

He just runs a hand through Jensen’s hair and hums, slightly hoarse. 

Jensen catches his breath while he dreamily watches the waves of Jared’s tattoo. He pats Jared’s chest. “Good?” 

Jared smiles and nods. “Unforgettable.” 

“That’s what you are,” Jensen yawns. He slings his arm over Jared. 

Portland says goodnight to them. 

“That’s why darlin’ it’s incredible.” Jared sings soft and sleepy. “That someone so unforgettable…”

Jensen curls up against Jared, easing into a dream. “...thinks that I am unforgettable, too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew! that was a nice change of pace! XD
> 
> it was tough trying to incorporate one Nat King Cole song per chapter, every chapter, without it getting cheesy or out of place. i liked how i integrated it in this chapter though. i'm pleased with the outcome. 
> 
> comments are love! <3


	27. Chapter 27

In the morning, Jared makes pancakes. 

He makes them in the shape of stars, cacti, and hearts, and delivers them to Jensen in bed. 

Jensen sits up in bed, bleary-eyed and sore. He also finds small pieces of tinsel in places on his body he never thought tinsel would be. 

“No penises?” He yawns and scrubs his face. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

Jared places the serving tray in front of Jensen, then climbs into bed next to him, stripped down to his boxer briefs. He pours them each a glass of orange juice. “I figured I’d save the penises for the terrible things I’m about to do to you in bed after we eat. C’mon, dig in. Nothing’s worse than cold pancakes.” He takes a giant bite of what looks to be a chocolate chip pancake. “An’ you’re gonna need the energy.”

More than confused--flustered--Jensen stares at the spread placed before him: plain pancakes, chocolate chip pancakes, bacon, eggs, hash browns, juice, and coffee. 

No one’s ever made him breakfast. 

And no one’s ever made him breakfast in bed. 

“Wait,” he blurts out, fork in hand. “I don’t own a breakfast tray. And all I had in my fridge was some leftover stuff from Popeye’s.” 

Clearly pleased with himself, Jared grins. He takes a long sip of orange juice and pushes a few slices of bacon onto Jensen’s plate. “Are you hungry or are you hungry? Eat. I’m kind of a morning person. Can’t seem to sleep in past seven.” 

A glance at his phone lets Jensen know it’s almost ten. He groans and shakes his head. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Ain’t no thing,” Jared says with his drawl as sweet as the heated maple syrup set aside to drizzle over the pancakes. “I jogged over to the Safeway, picked up some stuff, made it, and here we are.”

The man purchased  _ groceries _ . 

A potent mixture of shame and affection floods Jensen’s senses, which causes his face to go beet red. He lives exactly the way one might think a twenty-four year old lives: in an apartment with simplistic decor and a refrigerator that houses take out more often than anything he makes himself. It isn’t that he hates either of those things; he  _ can _ cook and he took the trouble to buy comfortable furniture, albeit secondhand.  

His lifestyle could be summed up as thrift store chic, which in Portland, could be thought of as cool.

Amos might say it’s how hipsters live, though that would be more of an accusation than a statement.

“Dude,” Jensen murmurs. “I… you literally jogged to the Safeway?”

“Yeah, I didn’t feel like biking there. Your neighborhood is awesome. There’s like, character in the buildings.” He gestures with his hands, a piece of bacon in one and his fork in the other. “People waved at me, Jen. On my block, they look at me like I’m fleeing a scene or something. Well, that or they completely ignore everyone around them.” 

Jensen finally digs into his meal and gradually becomes more comfortable with the gesture. His insecurity eases up without effort or worry. There is no obligation. No expectation for something in return--only to enjoy each moment for what it is. He doesn’t have to try and impress Jared or make excuses for the state of his fridge. Jared enjoys cooking. Jensen enjoys eating. And they don’t have to stand in line for an hour to eat brunch surrounded by hipsters demanding to take pictures of the food so they can post to their Instagram. It works.

They settle into a discussion about neighborhoods throughout Portland and their favorite blocks. 

Jared enthusiastically talks about Old Town Chinatown and the Saturday Market, then gets distracted describing his favorite kind of donut at Voodoo: the Old Dirty Bastard. 

“This is heaven,” Jared insists, kneeling now, entirely excited. “It’s a yeast doughnut with chocolate frosting, Oreo cookies, and peanut butter.” 

“I’m diabetic now, thanks,” Jensen laughs. “And I’m a Blue Star man. You can have your trash donuts.”

With a gasp, Jared clutches his chest. “A dagger, a dagger through my heart.”

“Cinnamon sugar donut with a cup of black coffee--that’s the bomb dot com.”

“I’m not sure if I can be seen with you in public.”

“Or a Krispy Kreme glazed right outta the fryer,” Jensen says with a happy sigh. “Holy shit I miss those.”

“I can’t eat a donut unless it has a pile of sugar on top of it.”

“But you could eat my ass without a pile of sugar on top of it.”

“I had secret sugar packets stashed away last night.” 

“The fuck you did!”

“Yup. I tore open a Splenda right before. You just didn’t hear it, what with all your moaning.”

“I wasn’t moaning,” Jensen huffs. He turns red again and drags himself out of bed to clear the tray. “Holy fuck, my ass hurts.” 

Jared lies back in bed, stretched out, conveniently naked again. “I can kiss it and make it better. Or do something to make it worse.”

“On the Lord’s day? How dare you.”

“The way you were praising and calling the Lord’s name last night, I don’t think the Lord would mind if we continued today.”

“You’re impossible.”

For the rest of the morning, they make excuses to stay in bed. Around one, Jensen puts on the self-titled first album from Boston. Sprawled over Jared, the air conditioning humming in the background, Jensen talks music. 

In 1976, Boston’s debut album sold half a million copies within thirty days, and seventeen million by 2003, making it the second best-selling debut album of all time in the States. Even though hard rock with intricate themes and layered melodies had been done by greats like Zeppelin, Boston knocked it out of the park on their first album. 

Jensen knows every track forward and backward on  _ Boston _ . 

He gradually begins to know every dip and curve to Jared’s shoulders, chest, and hips. 

Quite a few critics believe that  _ Boston _ should be flipped, with its original B-side as the A-side. 

When “Something About You” comes on, he sings it start to finish. He sings his favorite lyric into the palm of Jared’s hand, in between kisses. “It isn’t easy to show what I’m feeling inside.” He fixes his voice steady and low. “It isn’t easy, I know, when you believe in a man like me.” 

Electric guitar. Organ. Drums. Clavichord. Bass. 

The victory of rapid triplet arpeggios on an organ and the strum of an acoustic guitar.

Jensen presses against Jared, the both of them bare, warm, and hard. Their lips convey a craving carried on by divine guitar riffs echoing throughout the apartment. One inhale, one exhale. One grind, one push. Jared flips Jensen over to lie down. 

Melody. Countermelody. 

Sensual in all his movements, Jared adds lube in a few teasing strokes to Jensen’s cock. He lines them up, cock to cock, and bears his hips down for pressure, friction, and staggering stimulation. Jensen opens his legs a little wider. His hips ache and his cock feels thick. 

Jared kisses him deep, tugs on his hair, and teases the tip of his cock against Jensen’s ass. The combination sends him into a tailspin. 

What was he before if not soaked and set in this man?

Without holding back, Jared sets a rough and ready rhythm. Their cocks flush pink--twitching, swelling, leaking. Jensen gasps and groans the second Jared starts sucking on his left nipple. His lips smack. Tongue drags. Teeth nip. 

An honest conversation late last night removes the need for a condom. 

Jared pushes inside Jensen, his cock bare. 

He fucks Jensen to the steady, consistent drumming of Sib Hashian in the middle of a song called, “Smokin’.” He drives his cock in and out of Jensen, harder than ever, the force of it an addictive reckoning. The headboard bangs against the wall. Jensen holds onto Jared’s shoulders for dear life. He basks in the thrill of Jared pounding into him, each long plunge followed by a loud, wet squelch. 

Jensen keeps his hands away from his cock.

He focuses on the rush of heat and pressure in his cock and the small of his back. 

He comes without much warning, spurting and shooting in long ropes all over his stomach. Jared catches some of it with his fingers, brings it down to Jensen’s cock, and strokes him to come immediately one more time. 

Jared loses it a minute later--his mouth over Jensen’s as his cock swells, releases, and empties, buried to the base. He fills Jensen up, to excess, and it feels so good.

 “More than a Feeling” took more than five years to complete. 

Boston would have been a bigger band had they been able to adequately recreate their sound on stage while touring. In the seventies, a band that didn’t tour or tour well didn’t make it. 

Panting, Jared kisses Jensen, then swipes his thumb over Jensen’s bottom lip. His voice comes out gravelly yet tender. “You should always talk about music. I quite like it.”

“You don’t think it’s annoying?” 

Their cocks slot together again after Jared pulls out. They lay on their sides, chest to chest. They’ve achieved a level of intimacy in such a short time, with such intensity, Jensen worries they might somehow lose it. “Sometimes I get carried away with the music stuff.” 

“I love it,” Jared rumbles. He leans forward for another kiss, this one slow and sweet. Sincere, hazel eyes look back at him. He slings his left leg over Jensen’s hips and pulls them in closer than before. “Maybe you won’t mind if I told you that I also love you.” 

There’s a lot to say about someone who goes to the trouble of buying groceries, making breakfast from scratch, and delivering it to bed. 

In this moment though, there’s only one thing to say back. 

Already boneless, Jensen melts like butter on pancakes hot off the griddle. They’re going to spend all day in bed and that’s final. He runs his right hand through Jared’s hair. “Long as you don’t mind if I say it back.”

“Please do.” Jared grins, dimples out on display. 

He does. 

Rain against the window in his bedroom reminds him that there’s nowhere else he needs or wants to be.


	28. Chapter 28

Life without beer sucks.

But.

Life without hangovers and blackouts is kind of sort of possibly much better. 

The first four weeks one hundred percent, cold turkey sober cause a series of delightful headaches, which become migraines. Sleep eludes him like an annoying motherfucker. Either he sleeps too much or wakes up every ninety minutes in a cold sweat. No matter how much or how little sleep he gets, his body resists feeling rested or refreshed. 

On Saturday nights all throughout August, he sleeps over at Jared’s. On Sundays and Mondays, Jared sleeps at his place. On Fridays, he meets Hiyami and Tucker at Extracto instead of The Hour Glass. Despite his best efforts, there are quite a few evenings alone; the cravings and the temptation make their threats. He paces his apartment at three in the morning every Tuesday and Thursday. Sometimes, he lies in bed and flexes his toes fifty times in a row just to alleviate the scratching and clawing underneath his skin.

Summertime sobriety tests every ounce of self control and discipline he has. 

Portland is Beer City. 

What the hell is he supposed to do after work if not frequent a brewery or bar? Everywhere he looks, someone holds a frosty, cold glass of beer to take the edge off of the heat and humidity. The whole point of sitting on a patio is to enjoy a drink.

Even the layout of the city transforms into something unknown and strange. 

The best way to avoid alcohol is to avoid being in establishments dedicated to its sale. But anyone could throw a stone in Portland and hit either a bar, a boutique that sells nothing but bird-related merchandise, or a goddamn art gallery. 

How can he not just walk into The Hour Glass, have his usual served before he even has to ask for it, and play Keno for a few hours? What’s life without a pilsner from Occidental? An IPA from Stormbreaker? An ale from Ecliptic? A Belgian beer from Upright? That funky, tart, sour beer from Cascade? Or that Dad Beer Lager from Baerlic? The pale ale from Gigantic? The American IPA from Culmination? Or holy shit that one Heart of Gold American Wild Ale from Great Notion? Breakside Brewery. The Widmer Brothers. Hair of the Dog Brewing Company. Keys Lounge. Either/Or. Bantam Tavern. Abigail Hall. 

Jensen starts to live on iced coffee, water, smoothies, and ice cream. All other food tastes like a hot circle of garbage, but ice cream? Ice cream doesn’t let him down. And a good thing too, because hooray--he starts sweating like a cold bottle of beer left outside in the middle of the day. 

He curls up with a pint of butterscotch ice cream from Ruby Jewel on 12th and listens to sad music more often than he would ever admit.

Fortunately, more than a few people line up to haul Jensen’s ass out of his funk. 

The third Saturday in August, Hiyami demands an ice cream crawl. She wrangles Jared and Tucker to join her and Jensen in an afternoon of brain freeze and near diabetic comas. 

Cinnamon Snickerdoodle from Salt & Straw.

Coffee Crackle from Cool Moon Ice Cream.

Salted Caramel Swirl from Cloud City.

Chocolate AF from Fifty Licks.

Brown Butter soft serve from the Wiz Bang Bar.

Lemon Poppy Seed from Hurry Back.

The Elvis and Summer Paradise from 22 Below.

Coconut Bliss at Dairy Hill.

And Jensen’s favorite of the entire crawl: the Brown Butter Almond Brittle from What’s the Scoop on Williams. 

The next day, he makes out with Jared to a pint of Spicy Kiss ice cream and the entire album of “Hotel California.” 

So maybe, just maybe, by September, Jensen isn’t completely miserable. Rainbows and unicorns don’t suddenly fall from the sky, and Tool doesn’t miraculously release a new album, but that ball of tension, discomfort, and restlessness shrinks. Tanner gifts Jensen a bag of epsom salts a few days after the ice cream crawl. In Jared’s giant ass bathtub, Jensen soaks in the salts for an eternity and a half. With the salts, and spending a few more nights at Jared’s, sleep quits being such a bitch. 

Jensen is also surprised that being laid on a regular basis by Sex God Jared vastly improves his mood.

Clarity returns to Jensen’s head. 

He ignores Ahmet’s texts, emails, and general bullshit at work. Mike and Tiffany create a buffer between them; Amos hollers at Ahmet to stop screwing with Jensen’s hours and fucking do his job like a goddamn professional. The B-Side needs business--not middle school, soap opera, fucked up drama. 

For a second though, Jensen muses that since he feels better, he could allow himself a drink or two a week.  

Jared sits him down in the rooftop garden of his apartment building on a cool, calm Sunday evening. He brings with him a cedar box and a portable, battery operated, fancy ass, glass kettle. With a great deal of care, he opens the box, takes out a porcelain tea set and a tea chest. 

“This was my mum’s,” Jared shares with a smile. “My dad gave it to her as their first anniversary present. It was his mum’s. Says it’s the same pattern that the Queen uses, but we all know Reggie’s full of it.”

“I’m telling him you said that,” Jensen snickers. He leans towards Jared, ever the magnet. “There are so many pieces.”

“This is British tea, Jen. We don’t fuck around.” 

“So if I throw tea into a harbor you’d be upset?”

“I’m not sure. I’m only half-British, so maybe I’ll settle for mildly annoyed?” He presses a loud smooch to Jensen’s cheek. “But these tiny dried up leaves are expensive as fuck, so wait until I get the Lipton out. Then you can go all Boston Tea Party on my ass.” 

Affection doesn’t come in pieces from Jared. He doesn’t dole it out in crumbs. When they curl up to watch something on Netflix, Jared likes to have his arm around Jensen or his hand on Jensen’s. He never says goodbye without a kiss. If they drive somewhere, Jared pats Jensen’s knee twice before they start driving off. Sitting, standing, lying down, Jared will lean against Jensen. Personal space is for suckers.

Jared removes each piece of the tea seat from its box. 

“This here’s the star of the show--the teapot. Then we’ve got the sugar bowl, the creamer, cups, spoons, and matching saucers.” He works over to the tea chest. It opens with a creak. “I personally like the Tetley black tea, but that’s commoner tea. This here is Harrods.” 

Jensen watches Jared put together a bag of tea from loose leaf tins. 

Time has a habit of slowing down during moments like these with Jared. 

“I order two boxes every year. Anything in a bag is shit. Loose leaf is where it’s at. I’m making you a cuppa--the kind mum made me every time I stayed home from school sick.” 

After carefully measuring out English Breakfast No. 14, Jared pours hot water from the kettle to the tea pot. He swirls the water around to get the teapot warm, then adds the tea leaves into the filter. The lid of the teapot closes and they wait. 

The tea steeps for exactly five minutes. From the teapot, Jared pours a cup for Jensen first, then his own. He proceeds to add milk from a small container he brought up for this occasion, then stirs in two healthy spoonfuls of sugar. 

Jensen closes his eyes for the first few sips. The cuppa is sweet, refreshing, soothing, and clean.

Warmth spreads through him like a balm on his overworked nerves. 

He looks over at Jared. 

“Your mum was onto something,” he says, and lifts his cup. “I think I would have really liked her.”

A shine to his eyes, Jared nods and returns Jensen’s smile. He lifts his cup up. “Cheers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh according to my doc, there's only about 15 pages left of this fic! prepare for landing!


	29. Chapter 29

Jensen sits in front of his guitar and stares at it for approximately eighty hours. Or thirty minutes. Whatever.

His hands wage war against his brain. Play it. Don’t play it. Play it. Don’t play it. Could it be that easy? Could he just fucking lift the thing out of its stand and play something? Yes, yes he could. Except, his anxiety doesn’t use that logic or any logic at all. Increasingly desperate for a solution--any solution--his brain begins to clutch at straws. Compromise, goddammit. He could cop out and play something as simple as “Wild Thing.” 

But that’s not really what he wants to play, is it? 

Amos won big at an estate sale and bought an entire pallet of records. It being October, he had Jensen and Mike go through half the pallet yesterday and weed out the shit from the good shit. Most of what they got through was standard to mid-range--albums and artists that would bring in a solid five to ten dollars a piece. 

Stuck between mediocre albums, was an Otis Rush record, complete with the song, “I Can’t Quit You Baby.” Jensen called dibs, begged Amos for it, paid cash, and ran home with intent to listen to the record, obtain miraculous inspiration, and fucking play  _ something _ . 

Even Otis can’t help him. 

The record rotates on Jensen’s turntable, totally unaware of Jensen’s descent into angst. 

Sluggish, he allows his limbs and torso to roll off the couch until he somehow reaches the floor. He sprawls out on his stomach, arms extended out, hips up--he might as well call this yoga. There was that one time, a few years back, he wandered into one of the infinite yoga studios in the Northwest District. It was awful. People were groaning and sweating and contorted into impossible positions while being aggressively yet calmly commanded by instructors to breathe. 

If only he could focus on the music and his guitar instead of entry-level hipster shit. But then his mind wonders: are there more breweries or yoga studios in Portland? 

Holy shit, who the fuck cares? 

Maybe he can blame his mood on the overcast weather. Portland undergoes its usual hazy, gloomy autumnal transformation and people either sink or swim. Typically, Jensen enjoys the return of consistently dark and rainy days. 

He closes his eyes and issues orders for his mind to get its shit together. Otis Rush’s signature style involved long, dramatically bent notes. He was also a left-handed guitarist and played his guitar upside down. His style set the standard. If the music wasn’t slashing, amplified, high-strained, passionate, and haunted, then could it really be called music? Fuck no, it was just noise. 

Otis made the guitar clever and the horns sublime. Everyone wanted to and did cover his singles. Zeppelin covered, “I Can’t Quit You Baby,” and while it’s a brilliant cover, nothing replaces the original, flawless track set down by Otis and his band. 

That should be the driving force of picking up a guitar in the first place: give the listener a sound nobody else has got. 

He bought this guitar in a mom and pop shop somewhere in Hill Country, close to Luckenbach and the spirit of Waylon Jennings. So determined to dedicate a portion of his life to playing music, not just consuming it, he sprung for a steel string acoustic Yamaha F310 for the range, durability, and warm tones.

Not that any of that matters now, because all he’s been doing with it for the past year or so has been what he’s doing right now: staring at it and nothing else. 

“Oh, honey,” Jared announces, spinning his set of keys to Jensen’s apartment around one finger, “baby doll, sugar, dumplin’... we have got to stop meeting like this.” 

“Nnnngh,” Jensen grumbles, his cheek plastered against the floor. He weakly waves Jared away. 

Jared’s footsteps make the floor shake. “Face down, ass up, that’s the way we like to… practice guitar?”

“Nnghffff.” 

“Ah, I see.” Jared sits down on the floor, cross legged, dressed in his dark blue coveralls from work. He taps his chin and observes Jensen. “You’re a tortured soul,” he narrates, switching over to his English accent. “A starving artist. The world is bleak and your bank account is dismal. You need to create, but you also need to pay rent. Your situation is dire. Your chosen profession is cruel. And you are drooling on the floor.” 

Jensen busts out laughing and sits up so he can kick Jared in the shins. He wipes at the corner of his mouth. “I wasn’t drooling. I was concentrating. And… doing yoga.” 

Incredibly inconsiderate of Jensen’s feelings, Jared grins--handsome and charming and ugh. “If you’re not terribly busy concentrating and doing yoga, perhaps we could tickle our pickles.” 

“Don’t do the eyebrow thing.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You’re such a nerd. I’m a tortured artist, can’t you see I’m trying to brood?”

“We could bake the potato.”

“What?”

“Batter dip the corndog.”

“I can’t with you, Jared.”

“Do the dipsy doodle.”

“Get out of my face.”

“Dance the forbidden polka.” Jared inches close, then closer, closest, and plants a kiss square on Jensen’s mouth. He tastes like sweetened mint green tea. “Hi.” 

Jensen slowly opens his eyes, dazed by the electric current between them as they lie on the floor of his living room. “Hi.” 

He reaches out and runs a hand through Jared’s hair. They practically live together. Hiyami keeps rooting for Jensen to make it official and ask Jared to combine households. Whatever he’s paying in rent now, she reasons, he could be contributing to Jared’s rent. Except Jared outright owns his place, so there’s no rent to speak of, and paying the utilities doesn’t seem like it’s enough.

So he hasn’t brought it up, just like he hasn’t played guitar.

“This is uncomfortable,” Jared whispers and bumps their noses together. “Can I convince you to move to the couch? Or the bed? Preferably the bed.” 

“But I want to play something.” Otis stopped playing a while ago; the turntable sits silent. “I found the best inspiration at the store today and fuck it all, even that couldn’t do it.”

When they’re not together, Jensen notices Jared’s absence more than anything else in his immediate surroundings. There’s a Jared-shaped negative space if they aren’t within earshot of each other and goddamn does it make Jensen feel clingier than a dryer sheet. 

Last weekend, they hung out with Jared’s friends Rachel, Kerry, and their dog Canyon. It was Jensen’s introduction to the incredibly serious affair that is dog parks and dog ownership. He also witnessed Jared’s unending energy for dogs. Afterwards, the four of them and Canyon went to a beard contest in Nob Hill. Two nights ago, Jensen discovered Mochi Night on the Eastside, and they were able to pound mochi with hammers, as if they knew what they were doing. 

So why, if he’s so content and productive, and experiencing new things, meeting new people and all that jazz, why can’t he play?

“You  _ are _ tortured,” Jared says, one hand on Jensen’s chest. “This is eating you up, huh?” 

Jensen means to make a joke about being eaten out instead, but it fizzles. 

“I’ll put on some tea.” 

“You have the most British responses to problems.”

“Everything can be solved with a cuppa,” Jared scoffs. “I know of no other way.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /happy sigh/ these two idiots... why i love them.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> top!Jensen in this chapter!

With British efficiency, Jared makes a pot of tea and delivers it on a serving tray he brought from his own place. It’s weirdly comforting to see the selection of things they leave behind at each other’s dwellings. It’s more than toothbrushes or clothes; it’s serving trays, records, shoes, movies, books, and more. 

They sit on the couch and catch up, drinking tea from a set Jensen picked up at a shop two blocks over. He went for the simplest, white set, complete with saucers and a sugar spoon. 

Who the hell would have thought he would purchase and use a sugar spoon.

“Bandera to Concan,” Jared remarks, leaning into Jensen, putting his feet up on the coffee table. The sock on his right foot has a tiny rip in it. Jensen makes note of this for later.

“What?” 

“Castroville to Uvalde.”

“Is… is that code?” 

“Blanco to Wimberley.”

“You’ve finally snapped. This is what happens to people who date me.”

“Stonewall to Luckenbach.” 

“Oh,” Jensen blurts out and laughs. “Uh… Johnson City.”

“To?” 

“Sandy Road.”

Jared nods. Dimples flash. “Willow City Loop.”

Jensen slings an arm around Jared’s shoulders. “To Lake Buchanan.” 

“Inks Lake to Marble Falls.”

“Fredericksburg to Llano.” 

“Austin to Georgetown.”

“Elgin to Round Rock.”

“Seguin to San Marcos.”

Inexplicably, they pause from naming cities and towns in Texas. Jensen discovers Jared’s mouth and really, it’s all over after that. One kiss launches several dozen more, which encourages the gradual, then frenzied removal of clothes and all other obstacles. Jared pauses for a moment just to beg for them to move to Jensen’s bed. The couch is great for watching Netflix, napping, and blow jobs--not necessarily in that order--but for actual sex between two adult men? Not so much.

Jensen lays Jared down in bed and blows him the way he wishes he could play guitar--in a slow-burn, with razor-sharp intensity, every movement saturated in palpable desire.

Maybe playing guitar isn’t the same as performing oral sex, but it’s close enough. 

Jensen swallows Jared three quarters of the way down and moans as the twitching tip pushes against the back of his throat. He closes his eyes and indulges in the details--scent, taste, texture, and the sheer fullness of Jared’s cock stuffed into his mouth. 

“Fuck,” Jared groans, hands twisted in the sheets. “I… oh my god.” 

The best sound from a guitar occurs when the musician opens themselves up for every kind of emotion and sensation; anything from profound joy to an onslaught of pain. It could be that giving head works in the same way. Jensen opens his throat, relaxes his jaw, and breathes through his nose. He takes Jared in entirely, the furthest yet. 

Momentary pain mixes in with steadfast pleasure. He applies pressure in short bursts of control and release. Gradually, he moves his mouth up and down, adding spit and suction. Enthusiasm? Yes. Passion for sucking Jared’s cock? Double yes. 

He works his mouth, lips, and throat to create enough noise to rival Jared’s moans. 

Jared tugs on Jensen’s hair and begs for mercy. His voice takes on the sound of a dark, rumbling chord progression. 

Willing to oblige, Jensen pops off. He smacks his lips and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Jared watches, panting, and completely mesmerized. 

“Hey,” Jared murmurs. He pulls Jensen up to meet eye to eye. 

“Hey,” Jensen murmurs back. He presses a kiss to Jared’s temple. “You okay?”

With a snort, Jared laughs. “Me? Okay? Why do you ask? I just had my brain melt because of how well you sucked my cock. I s’pose I’m doing alright.” 

“Then why am I talking to you and not sucking your cock?” 

“Because…” Jared bites his bottom lip and glances towards Jensen’s nightstand. “You should grab the lube and you know. Use it. On yourself. Then on me.” 

It takes a few seconds for Jensen to piece together the request and what it means. 

He pulls Jared in for a sharp, sweet kiss--chest to chest. 

They tumble around in bed, grinding, licking, biting, groping, and occasionally laughing. Jensen grabs the faithful tube of lube from its place of honor on his nightstand and bops Jared on the nose with it. He’s so excited, he might just come from applying it on himself. Jared lies back, arms behind his head, and watches intently, his eyes dark. 

“Bedford to Bellevue,” Jensen says, kneeling, his right hand stroking lube over his cock. He shudders when he squeezes the base of it. 

Jared licks his lips and nods. “Chico to Dublin.”

“Grapevine to Hawkins.”

“Jasper,” Jared mumbles and rolls onto his stomach. His hips arched up, legs spread, and head on a pillow, he does a way more elegant job of imitating a yoga pose than Jensen. “To Killeen.” 

Struggling not to lose it, Jensen positions himself behind Jared and lines them up. He takes a deep breath and rambles on about wanting to last more than two minutes. He screams at himself to calm the fuck down. Think of Nirvana. Think of Pearl Jam. Think of a mashup. 

It’s no use. 

All he can focus on is the sight and sensation of his cock nudging against Jared’s slick, pink hole and how easy, how naturally, it slides in. 

Strain. Stretch. Swell. 

Jensen digs his fingertips into Jared’s hips. He watches, transfixed, as his cock sinks deeper and deeper into Jared. Pushing into heat and pressure, Jensen completely enjoys their tonal revelry. 

Jared pushes back, his round, pert ass begging to be used. That impossibly small ring of muscle stretches over the entire length of Jensen’s cock, sucking him in, holding him tight at an angle that can only be described as eu-fucking-phoric. 

“Move,” Jared half-shouts, half-gasps. “Move, love.” 

The first pull out and thrust back in is nothing short of heaven. He hears the squelch of lube with his movement and quickly needs more of it. More of everything. More raw pounding. More slap of their skin. More steam, more sweat, more sweet, greedy, voracious cries from Jared not to hold back. 

Leaning forward, Jensen wraps his arms around Jared’s chest and fucks into him hard enough to push Jared’s hips down to be flush against the mattress. Balancing the weight of his upper body, Jensen props himself up and loses all rhythm. He fucks Jared without any concern for a composed, controlled pace. 

He very thoroughly pounds into Jared. 

And Jared very thoroughly shouts for more. Faster. Deeper. Harder. 

Jensen rests his forehead against Jared’s shoulder and issues one and only one warning. Hold on.

With every commanding, punishing thrust, Jensen keeps one hand on Jared’s cock and the other on his throat. Tension and release. 

“Fuck it, fuck it--right there, holy fuck!” Jared’s ass clenches. “Don’t stop, please, please, pl--oh, shit, shit, shit. Coming. Jen!” 

Wincing, Jensen uses every single muscle in his body to contribute to an orgasm to end all orgasms. He chases after it, driving into Jared, unafraid to wring it out of Jared with a series of rough, accelerated thrusts. 

Jared comes in the closed fist of Jensen’s right hand. He spills all over, his cock heavy, sticky from lube and rope after rope of milky come. He cries out as Jensen continues to simultaneously pump his cock and slam into his ass. Jensen catches the exact moment Jared reaches a second, higher peak. 

Words and words that, together, sound almost like complete sentences, punch around in Jensen’s lungs before he shouts them. Jared comes on his cock and it is the most incredible thing ever. To think that  _ his _ cock brought Jared to this wrecked and gasping state--it makes his cock that much harder. He thinks about his firsthand knowledge of what it feels like to come from being fucked. The build up, the pain, the pay off. He thinks of Jared basking in it because of him and he loses it.

He comes inside Jared, insatiable and fevered. Come from his cock fills Jared up and spills over, adding to the soaked mess underneath them. 

Texas to Oregon.

An hour later, he tosses on a pair of boxers.

Jared follows him, though a bit slower. Into the seemingly mundane living room, they walk over to the couch and guitar. 

This time, when Jensen picks up the guitar, he actually plays it.

It might not sound like much, or even half as polished as the original, but Jared loves his cover of “I Can’t Quit You Baby.” 


	31. Chapter 31

A guitar is  _ not  _ just a guitar. 

There are acoustic, classical, and electric guitars. Steel or nylon strings. Hollow bodies. Magnetic pickups. Concert shape. Grand concert. Auditorium. Grand Auditorium. Dreadnought. Jumbo. Travel. Seemingly small details could have big impacts on sound quality. Fretboard width. The type of wood. The weight. Ease of play. 

Two weeks after his flirtation playing Otis Rush songs, Jensen stretches out on Jared’s couch, guitar in his lap. The sound of rain against the large, industrial windows provide soothing tempo. 

“Damn good idea to have Sunday afternoon tea,” Reggie announces, placing a tray of finger sandwiches onto the coffee table in the living room. “Glad I thought of it.”

Following after, Jared carries in a tray of scones, jam, and pastries--part of an offering Reggie brought from one of the shops downtown. The fancy kind of shop that sells pastries with all the seriousness of neurosurgeons. “Glad you thought of it and invited yourself over,” Jared quips.  

“Oh tosh, not the first time I’ve seen you naked. I raised you, didn’t I?” 

“Quite possibly. The jury is still out on that one.”

“You shall recover.” Reggie claps Jared on the back. “Jensen isn’t any worse for wear either, are you?”

The guitar strings vibrate underneath Jensen’s fingertips, similar to the vibrator he had used on Jared not an hour ago--which Reggie had walked in on and briefly witnessed before everyone started screaming and scrambling to disperse. 

“Your dad saw my ass and didn’t scream or call the cops,” Jensen answers and tunes his guitar. “I’m good. We can all move past this now.”

Reggie fusses over the set up of afternoon tea. “Right-o. Do we prefer strawberry or raspberry jam? Suppose I have both, but which do I open first.”

Jensen fields that question with a strum of G chord. “Strawberry.” 

“How can you talk about jam,” Jared huffs, plopping next to Jensen, “when minutes ago, my own father walked in on us having sex.” 

Learning to play an instrument provides a sense of personal achievement. 

For the past two weeks, Jensen has made an effort to play his guitar for a minimum of one hour every day. Muscle memory remains a stubborn troll, intent on staying buried in the recesses of his mind. Still. Actual music pours out of the guitar instead of a rush of noise. He could use work on nuance, but the basics remain after all these years. 

Amos pointed out a few skittish parts in Jensen’s take on “Black Magic Woman,” but ultimately concluded that Carlos Santana wouldn’t  _ completely  _ lose his shit if he heard it. And that’s a goddamn glowing review coming from Amos, who had reservations about Jensen practicing in the breakroom. 

It just feels like there needs to be  _ more _ . 

More texture. Depth. Challenge. 

It’s not enough to play the songs he memorized in high school. It’s not enough to listen to “The Chain” on repeat at the buy counter and try to pick out where exactly the band manually spliced the original tapes with a razor blade. It’s not enough to price album after album of soggy, yellowed, trashed albums from the seventies that couldn’t sell then, much less forty years after sitting in attics. It’s not enough to trade banter with Mike or check inventory with Tiffany for that one customer that claims they saw a copy of “Wheels of Fire” marked down to four dollars. 

And for the first time in for-fucking-ever, it’s not enough to crave a cold beer.

Instead, another craving conquers his body and soul--so far irritatingly inexplicable. 

He looks up--interrupting a father-son argument about which tea house in London makes the best scones--and asks, “What time is it?”

Reggie answers first. “Quarter past four, son.”

“You alright there?” Jared pats Jensen’s knee then gives it a squeeze. 

Maybe playing it out would help. Just not here. Or at his place. Or at a bar. Or in the breakroom. 

Jensen launches from the couch and rattles off something akin to an explanation. He grabs his guitar case, paces back and forth for a minute while he continues to spit out nouns, verbs, and adjectives, then abruptly halts all movement. He says his plan out loud, in crystal clear language.

“Let’s go,” Reggie declares and takes one last sip of tea. “Quit lollygagging, move your bums! I’ll pack up the necessaries. C’mon, c’mon, there’ll be plenty of time to chinwag later on! Jared, bring the car round. Jensen, you’re sure this thing started at four?” 

“That’s what Mike said, yeah.” 

“Then let’s not waste anymore time faffing about! Time is of the essence!”

“Calm down, Churchill,” Jared huffs and swats at Reggie. “We’ll get him there.” 

With little else than a hope and a prayer to the guitar gods, their trio arrives at Extracto no worse for wear. It is absolutely incredible what one Englishman and one half-English, half-Texan can accomplish on short notice in the spirit of satisfying a burning, existential question. 

Mirabel signs Jensen in and promises him an extended set. She pencils him in right after Butch Mary and the Hollyhocks, who finish playing a cover of “Josie,” because it’s a required song for Portland musicians to learn and play at every single gig.

Texas to Oregon.

Holy fuck, how did all of this happen?

How is he standing in front of a packed patio full of discerning hipsters and music aficionados on a Sunday afternoon in October in Portland? 

Should he play a Nirvana/Pearl Jam mashup? Or play it safe with something from Zappa? Bowie? Zeppelin? It should be Zeppelin. Everyone knows “Stairway to Heaven.” 

He’s got the wrong look for this crowd. He hasn’t got tattoos or piercings or a beard or glasses. He doesn’t sew his own clothes or wear suspenders or brew his own beer or ride a unicycle to work. There’s not a single painting of either the ocean or a bird in his apartment. 

Ahmet stands up from one of the tables on the right. 

He makes direct eye contact with Jensen before turning back and looking at his husband. Austin rolls his eyes and makes a vague, irritated motion in Jensen’s direction. They push past people and tables to exit before Jensen can play a single second.

Blackout drunk. 

Hungover as fuck. 

That time Austin pulled Jensen aside and told him  _ he  _ was the bad influence on Ahmet. 

In the crowd, Jared stands up, raises his hands, and hollers. 

“You go, Bradley Cooper!” 

Jensen laughs, shakes his head, and turns his attention to the goddamn guitar in his hands and the mic in front of his face. 

There are all sorts of ways to describe music and the creation of rhythmic sound. 

But sometimes it’s good to forget about all of that and just fucking play. 

“Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be.” Jensen leans towards the mic. His hands produce more sound than a singular instrument. “As a friend, as a friend, as a known enemy. Take your time, hurry up, the choice is yours, don’t be late.” 

And then. In a smooth, melting gradient, blending the two artists and songs, Jensen changes gears.

Not Pearl Jam.

But quite possibly something even better.

“Smile,” he sings, eyes closed, heart pounding. He molds grunge and jazz and traditional pop together. His stance changes. More air. Deeper breaths. Enunciate. Inhale. Exhale. Forgo conventional comfort zones like a boss. “Though your heart is aching. Smile, even though it’s breaking. When there are clouds in the sky, you’ll get by.” 

How did anyone get here? Who stays?

Mirabel holds onto Jared and dabs at her eyes. 

“Come doused in mud, soaked in bleach, as I want you to be. As a trend, as a friend, as an old.” 

Nirvana to Nat King Cole and back again. 

“If you smile through your fear and sorrow. Smile and maybe tomorrow. No, I don’t have a gun. Memoria, memoria. No, I don’t have a gun. You’ll see the sun come shinin’ through for you--memoria, memoria.”

Texas to Oregon to The B-Side to… 

Something else.

Something, someone, somewhere new. 

As he is, as he wants to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! this is the second to last chapter of this fic! T_T
> 
> some of y'all know already, but i have ehlers danlos syndrome (type 3!). two weeks ago, i gestured towards the tv and my left elbow did a full dislocation. everything went back into place on its own after thirty seconds of me just screaming, but after one immediate care visit, an ortho visit, a round of prednisone, the purchase of wrist braces and an arm sling, plus lots and lots of ice--i'm still not much better. sigh. typing hurts, but i'm iced up and tylenol just kicked in so here we are. 
> 
> anyway, i'm kinda literally working with the use of one arm for the time being. it makes for interesting experiences. :P
> 
> folks tell me this is similar to tennis elbow? maid's elbow? there's an elbow for every condition, joked my ortho's nurse. even for people who just gesture to the tv and end up dislocating their elbow and possibly tearing something in the process. whee. 
> 
> okay okay, back to the fic--comments are love!


	32. Chapter 32

 

The people of Portland have turned waiting in line for brunch into an art. 

Hiyami decided to wear her biggest and brightest hat for the occasion. The absence of sunlight or any discernible warmth means nothing. Dressed in her long sleeve, coral pink and pearl white Valentino dress she swears counts as casual clothing, she rolls up to Jared and socks him in the shoulder. 

Tucker receives the next punch to the arm. “We’ve been here for an hour,” he groans and clings to Jared. “Why are we waiting for the privilege to eat food here?” 

“Because I have willed it so,” Hiyami scoffs. She turns to Jensen. “I hear they have zucchini milk.”

“You’re the worst kind of hipster,” Jensen grumbles. “I rolled my ass out of bed at seven in the morning on a Sunday for this.”

With a squeeze to Jensen’s ass, Jared quips, “Sounds like you had a late night.”

More accurately put,  _ they _ had a late night. Jensen finally finished emptying every corner of his apartment and hauled it all in a steady stream of boxes, bags, and furniture. In a perfect world, Jensen would have chosen any other time of year except winter to embark on a change of address. 

The promise of buying their first Christmas tree in their first shared living space, however, was a decent motivator. 

They’ll go to one of the overpriced Christmas tree lots tomorrow with Reggie and their first-ever guest.

“This is worse than Austin,” Josh complains. He glares daggers at Jensen. “Why did I agree to visit you in the dead-ass of winter?” 

“This ain’t dead-ass of winter.” Jensen glares daggers back at his older brother. “We still have January and February to get through. Also, Doctor, you’re the fucking morning person of the family. Just pretend like you’re waiting in line to operate on someone.”

Five out of their six person group shout out, “Not it!” 

Jensen isn’t ready to visit his parents in Texas or fly them out to Portland just yet. They did not take the news well that Jensen would not be joining them for the holidays this year.

But when his brother asked to visit for Thanksgiving, he didn’t hesitate to say yes. 

Hiyami begins her story about the time she, Jensen, and Tucker waited for three hours to have brunch at The Screen Door on Burnside when it first opened. Then, she moves onto the story of Jared and Jensen marching in the mini pride parade during homecoming held by the GSA groups in the Portland area last month, declaring them the most glitzed/glammed/fabbed up pair of the entire event. She spares no amount of detail for Josh or her date.

Harriet hands Jensen fifty dollars and a copy of his winning Keno card. 

“After this,” Harriet says, nudging Jensen, “y’all should swing by the shop. I got in a new shipment of lavender.” 

“ _ He _ can’t handle more flowers,” Jared sighs, with a roll of his eyes. 

“We live in a goddamn jungle,” Jensen counters. “And I have allergies.”

Ever so helpful, Josh chimes in. “Because your unhealthy record collection doesn’t harbor an army of dust?” He looks at both Hiyami and Tucker. “Why can’t y’all move to Texas instead? You’d like it there.”

The line moves a fraction of an inch forward. Jensen can smell biscuits and gravy in the distance. He can practically taste it. Despite the heat lamps the restaurant placed outside for those undeserving of an immediate table, Jensen starts to shiver. He made the poor decision to wear only his Nirvana hoodie as protection from the elements, thinking that they wouldn’t have to wait outside and he didn’t want to worry about his winter jacket once seated. 

So this is how he’ll die. Exposed to the elements. In Portland. Waiting in line for brunch. Like the hipster he claimed, pledged, promised Amos he wasn’t and would never be. 

Maybe since he started working part-time at The B-Side, it’s okay for him to be a part-time hipster.

He doesn’t own a fedora. Yet. 

A couple in line ahead of them argues over their son’s potential for placing into Elite Kindergarten and it’s not too early for Strathmore to start learning Mandarin  _ and _ Spanish. If Strathmore can’t make it into Elite Kindergarten, the path to raising an award-winning, world-renowned neurosurgeon dies an early death. Five people away, a group of friends debates their selections for brunch. No one can order the same thing. It’s against the rules. Only rude ass bitches order the same thing as someone else and that’s  _ it. _

On the street, people on bikes zoom past, likely headed to their own brunch destination or the end of this line, which seems to curl all the way around the block. 

Amos hated reducing Jensen’s hours. 

Jensen insisted. 

The cut in income sucks, but it doesn’t hurt as much as he initially thought it would. Being the benevolent, generous, ridiculous person Jared is, Jared was never going to ask Jensen to pay rent at his place once they moved in together. After last minute sex in Jensen’s old apartment, Jensen texted Jared a number, followed by a series of eggplant emojis. 

Seconds later, still out of breath and sprawled underneath Jensen, Jared sent a text back--a bunch of lettuce emojis and a thumbs up. 

Cool.

From time to time, Jensen will go with Jared on electrician jobs and help out. He’s still convinced that man was not made to tinker with wires and sparky things, but it helps pay the bills and Jared is the best teacher at how to fix stuff without much fear of electrocution. 

On Monday nights, when the city is just about to settle in for a drizzly evening, Jensen plays a set at Extracto. Mike joins him every other week, on the drums, and they find a way to play every request Mirabel throws at them.

Most of the decision to work part-time at The B-Side came from an unexpected discovery.

Josh bumps shoulders with Jensen. “Didn’t I tell you to bring a coat?”

“Nope.”

“I heard you,” Jared snickers. “And I heard Jen talk shit about your choice in shoewear.” 

“Not everyone can wear Converse and live to tell the tale. You’re young still,” Josh huffs. “Give it five years, then you’ll be sorry for what you do to your feet wearing those things.”

Jared wraps an arm around Jensen’s shoulders and pulls him in close. 

Jensen smiles and leans into the solid wall of six foot five electrician on a mission. 

Kissing Jensen’s cheek, Jared murmurs, “You gonna tell them the topic for the next episode?” 

Twice a week, Jensen combs through the music section of Powell’s. Afterwards, depending on what he finds, he hunkers down at Extracto and writes a script for “A Trebled Man: One Man’s Journey into Music History.” 

He achieved peak Portland hipster-ness the second he started recording his own podcast. 

With the help of Mike, Tucker, and Jared, Jensen set up a small workspace in the guest bedroom of Jared’s place. He bought a twenty dollar USB microphone and took a crash course on how to use Zencastr. Four episodes in, he has a decent following. He’ll have to learn the finer points of Twitter and other social media hellsites, but that can wait.

Everyone in their group directs their attention to Jensen.

So he starts talking.

“Hotel California” was originally titled “Mexican Reggae.” The muse for the song was The Beverly Hills Hotel, which became the embodiment of mystery and romance. Glenn Frey thought about the importance of places like The Beverly Hills Hotel--as places, memories, or settings. The band wanted a song with nuance, filled with myths and nightmares, but also wanted to include a commentary on the music business and American culture overall.  

Jensen gives a nervous laugh, somewhat unsettled in the sudden attention from his group and a few folks around them. He tucks himself into Jared’s hold, content to stay there. 

Josh shoots Jensen a smile. “Okay, so maybe that record collection has paid off. It’s a great podcast.”

“Ooh you’re on Spotify.” Harriet’s thumbs fly over the screen of her phone. “I’ll share this with my friend Mac. He’s like, some kind of big shot in the biz.”

“Mac Everly?” Jensen’s eyes widen. “You know Mac?” 

Sending off a text, Harriet nods. She looks up and gives Jensen two thumbs up. “Sent. And yeah, we go way back. Dunno what he’ll do, but if you’re cool with it, we can all have coffee.” 

“Wow,” Hiyami says with a wide grin. “My date has fashion sense  _ and _ connections.” 

“You hear that?” Jared snorts. “ _ Her _ date gets compliments.” 

Jensen eyes Jared up and down. 

Moving into Jared’s place means they are even more entangled in each other than before. Jared and Josh have appointments at The Skeleton Key tomorrow for ink and potential piercings. It’s possible that Jensen will join them in the chair. 

He’s almost five months sober. 

He bought his first official tea set from an antique store in Tillamook last month, on a short holiday. The set sees use every Sunday afternoon at three, when Jared and Jensen commit to having tea on the balcony--rain or shine.

If Jensen could preserve one image in his mind, it might be of Jared, sitting on the balcony, relaxed, in the middle of a laugh, the smattering of a beard on his face, his long hair in a bun, sleeves rolled up, tattoos on display, and holding a cuppa. 

“Compliments, eh?” Jensen grabs a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans. “I don’t think I have any on me, but I have this…” 

Hiyami squeals and starts shaking Tucker in excitement. “And Jensen wasn’t going to call him back! He was just gonna be all, ‘My consolation is in the stardust of a song,’ and shit.” She thwacks Josh on the arm. “Do you see this? I think his heart has grown three sizes.” 

In the background, someone a few people ahead of them gets down on one knee and proposes to their partner. Right here in the line for brunch, because that’s exactly how people in Portland do things. Most everything centers around brunch, waiting in lines, or both. 

Cheers erupt in the line for the newly engaged couple. One of their friends takes a boombox out from hiding and blasts a Chinese-English cover of “L-O-V-E.” 

Jared and Jensen glance over to the couple.

They look back at each other and Jensen shrugs before softly singing, “Two in love can make it. Take my heart and please don’t break it.” 

Jared grins, laughs, and unfolds the piece of paper. 

This is just how things had to turn out. He can never forget about hazel eyes, dimples, and tattoos of the sea. In time, these things will be everything ever worth remembering. 

It starts to rain, which in itself is no big deal, because hey, it’s Portland.

Mike waves them down from the front of the line. His connections pulled through and their table’s ready.

Sniffling, Jared wipes away tears from his eyes. He laughs, cries, and pulls Jensen in for a sloppy, needy, desperate kiss.

“Love,” Jared says, his voice only slightly cracking, “was made for you an’ me--holy fuck, Jen.” 

This time, Jensen pulls Jared in for a kiss.

They have tickets to Clovelly, England in April, where they'll stay in a cottage right by the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh! the end! 
> 
> i got super attached to these two. this fic was a great journey. it challenged me and gave me the change to try a few things. thank you to the two patrons who inspired this fic. <3 
> 
> thank YOU for reading. i hope you enjoyed this adventure and had fun with us along the way! comments are love--i read them all. visit me on tumblr: compo67.tumblr.com.

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is a bonus fic posted for folks that support my writing outside of Ao3. It is now ready to share here! :D 
> 
> i got super attached to this verse (surprise) and want to thank the folks that made this possible, especially T and S. <3 
> 
> and a big thank you to y'all for being here as i continue to write these two. just a reminder, if you like my writing and you'd like to become a supporter outside of AO3, visit me at compo67.tumblr.com for details. please help me spread the word. :) another bonus fic (time traveling j2!) will open soon.
> 
> with all that out of the way, please enjoy B-Side!


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